


The Piano Lessons

by youreyestheyglow



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: College AU, Fluff, M/M, Smut, in which levi and eren are pianists, musician au, so yes Eren is legal, trigger warning I guess for nightmares/minor ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:25:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Levi is given the responsibility for Eren's piano education and things go in the exact opposite direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first ten chapters are the main fic; the last six are short drabbles that occur after the main story.

The doorbell rings.

You grimace and stand.

He’s here. Your new student. The student who couldn’t take class anymore with the rest of the music students because he ‘had trouble getting along with some of them.’ The student you were asked to teach because you were the only one who could keep him in line, and apparently the shithead couldn’t just pick another class to get his art credit.

You swing the door open.

Eren Jaeger is taller than you by a good few inches – no surprise there, everyone’s taller than you are. Brown hair that looks like he made an attempt at brushing it, an attempt that was ruined by the wind that brushed it across his forehead. Blue-green eyes, wide, unblinking, betraying nerves and yet another failed attempt of his: an attempt to appear _cool_. Maybe that wasn’t the right word. Maybe it was something more along the lines of _not absolutely moronic_. Or _not terrified_.

“My name is Levi. You will call me Levi, Professor, or Professor Levi. You will not call me ‘prof,’ ‘prof Levi,’ or any other strange term that crosses your mind. My full name is Rivaille, I’m sure they told you, but as I assume you cannot pronounce it correctly, you will not use it.” You stand back and let him step inside. “You will take off your shoes here – God, I hope your feet don’t stink. You will not track dirt inside. You are in my house, not a classroom, and I will not tolerate messes of any kind.”

He removes his shoes, betraying anxiety yet again – he misses the heel of his shoe, something that wouldn’t cause any trouble for a calm person, and nearly falls over.

You watch dispassionately as he struggles with his shoes for a moment.

He straightens, somewhat red in the face, and waits.

You do a sharp about-face and lead him into the living room, dominated by a baby grand piano.

“Cherry wood, Altenburg, nine years old. I keep it in perfect condition. You will treat it as though it is the most precious, valuable thing you’ve ever seen, or you will not come back. If I see you hit it, if you bang on the keys like a child discovering noise for the first time, if you open it roughly, you will not come back. It is a piano, a musical instrument and a work of art, my medium of choice and clearly yours as well, if you refused to choose a different class, and I trust you will treat it properly.”

He nods, a flicker of determination in his eyes.

You suppose you have to give credit where credit is due.

Most students would have flipped you off and walked out by now.

You nod at the folder in his hands. “Sheet music?”

He nods.

“Pick whichever song is your best and play it, and then pick whichever song is your worst and play that.”

He slides onto the bench, sifts through his folder, and pulls out two songs: a piano arrangement of Beethoven’s Fifth and the first movement of Mozart’s Sonata No. 4.

He plays through Beethoven perfectly fine, with a steady beat and proper timing.

You almost want to say you’re impressed.

If nothing else, he has potential.

And then he starts playing Mozart.

You stop him after the fifth measure. “How long have you been working on this?”

He ducks his head. “A month.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Four weeks? How often do you play?”

You see a flush creeping up over the back of his neck. “Every day.”

You take a deep breath. “Tone-deaf shit canoe.”

He glances up at you in shock.

“Play it again.”

The kid’s going to make you earn your paycheck.

By the time he leaves, though, he has the first few measures smooth, and looks pleased with himself.

You glance at the clock. He left at nine, right on time.

Good. You can’t stand it when people don’t leave when they say they will.

You can’t stand having people in your house in the first place.

The phone rings.

“Levi,” you answer curtly.

“Hey Levi, it’s Erwin. How’d Eren do? Is he too much trouble? I suggested sending him somewhere else, but you were the closest, and they insisted on asking you first – he’s a sophomore, he’s got no car on campus.”

“He’s acceptable. He arrives and leaves on time, he doesn’t argue, and he has skill and potential. I’ll train him.”

You hear a faint sigh, and when Erwin speaks again, it’s a little quieter, a little less forceful. “Thank you, Levi. I appreciate this, I really do.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” You sit down at the kitchen table. “Why did he get kicked out of class again?”

“Poor behavior.”

Your frown deepens. “I hate to undermine your authority, and you certainly understand the situation better than I do, but if I might make a suggestion?”

“I trust your opinion, as always.”

“Eren might not be the problem. He appears to be well-behaved, intelligent, determined, hard-working; I didn’t get the impression that he was violent or argumentative. Of course, I don’t know the situation, and can’t understand how he interacts with other students. But in my opinion, it might be wise to re-examine the situation.”

Erwin is silent for a moment as he thinks. “From the professor’s reports, Eren tended to fight with one student, Jean Kirstein. The professor was never quite certain who started it, but Eren did turn violent last week, prompting his move out of the class. I’ll keep tabs on the class and on Jean, and I’ll keep you posted. Does that sound all right?”

“It does, thank you.”

You discuss the weather and other equally unimportant topics before hanging up, and when you take the phone from your ear, you sit back.

Eren had turned violent.

Of course they sent him to you.

Eren had been quiet, polite, had even cracked a joke or two. The kid had a dry sense of humor; you can’t see him taking a joke the wrong way. He had taken your curt orders without complaint: clearly he was not the type to get emotional over small things.

Jean Kirstein.

You roll the name around in your mind.

What could he possibly have said that provoked Eren Jaeger into violence?

You turn the question over in your head as time ticks past, the only noise the soft hum of your refrigerator and the quiet click of the analog clock in the next room.

You have no answer when midnight rolls around, but you’re mentally exhausted from going in circles, and you fall asleep with the hope that you won’t have the nightmare tonight.

You have it anyway.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

You walk in.

The man raises his gun.

His daughter appears in the doorway and sees you and wails, young but old enough to understand that it’s still dark and there’s a strange man that she doesn’t know and that her daddy is holding a gun and that she understands none of these things or why they’re put together and only that they’re scary.

You pull your gun out of your holster.

You point it at her face, right between her wide eyes.

You pull the trigger.

You hear the sharp blast of a gun.

You see red.

Your torso snaps up, your eyes wide in the dark, your heavy breathing loud in the silence, head whipping back and forth, looking for the girl, the little girl whose face is branded in your memory, but she’s not there, no one is. You’re alone.

You struggle blindly to get out of your bed, sweat-soaked sheets twisted around your leg like hands, or mud, dragging you down, holding you down in the dirt, pulling you down to suffocate you –

You topple out of bed, dragging yourself out of the sheets with shaking hands as you pull yourself blindly towards the living room, shaking the sheets off your leg as you sit down at your piano, trembling fingers grazing over the smooth keys before settling on E and moving, not dancing, not gliding, but jerky, rough movements, the sound more noisy than musical, more sharp than smooth, grating against your ears and invading your brain in the way that only badly-played music can, the melody getting lost in the unsteady beat and the chords.

You stop before the song does, cutting it off halfway through as your hands clench into fists, banging down on the keys.

No, no, you can’t hit the piano. You can’t hit the piano, you can’t hurt the piano, you can’t break the piano, the piano must be here, and you begin to play more softly, quietly, soothingly, an apology to the inanimate object that speaks more sweetly than you ever have that soothes you as well, calming your heart rate.

The air stops crushing your windpipe, and you pull in deep breaths, slowly relaxing your muscles.

You drop your foot on the damper pedal, and the note holds steady.

A drop of sweat falls from your forehead onto one of the keys. You grimace and wipe it off.

You suppose you could go to bed, now. The nightmare rarely comes twice in one night.

You glance at the floor, at the long, twisted sheet that you dragged out with you, leading back into your bedroom, the dark hole in which you sleep.

When the sun pokes its slim fingers through your windows, they find you playing Mozart’s Sonata No. 4.


	2. Chapter 2

You’re ready for Eren Jaeger, the next time he rings your doorbell.

You open your door and stand aside, and he steps in and pulls off his shoes.

He didn’t forget. You’re impressed.

He’s made some progress on Mozart, but not much, but his furrowed eyebrows and the way he bites his lip conveys frustration enough that you don’t bother reprimanding him. He’s trying, and that’s enough. You’re not interested in his piano playing, anyway. Not today.

“Ay, brat, do you want a cup of tea?” You ask at nine, as he’s standing and putting together his folder of sheet music.

He looks up. “What?”

“Eloquent. Do you want a cup of tea? Assuming you don’t have another class to go to, that is.”

“I – I don’t want to intrude, Professor –”

“That’s not answering the question, shitpickle. Do you want a cup of tea or not? You can say no, I won’t be offended.”

His mouth flaps for a moment before he gives up on it and nods instead.

He sets his folder down – “No, Jaeger, bring that in here with you, I wanna look at Mozart for a moment –” picks the folder back up, and follows you into the kitchen.

“Any particular flavor? I’ve got everything.”

“Whatever you’re having is fine, thanks,” he says cautiously, glancing around.

“So why did you fight with Jean Kirstein?”

You glance behind you to see him frozen, watching you wearily. “Sorry?”

“Your eloquence never fails to astound, asswaffle,” you comment dryly. “Why did you fight Jean Kirstein?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not your philosophy teacher, I’m your piano teacher, and only barely that. I don’t need the reason for humanity’s existence, I’m asking why you got in a violent altercation with Jean Kirstein.”

“Aren’t they not supposed to tell you about that? Don’t I have the right to privacy or something?”

“This isn’t your criminal record, it’s violence in a classroom, brat. And since they sent you to me so that I could handle you if you turned violent again, they felt it was appropriate to warn me.” You set two steaming mugs on the table and turn back for sugar.

“So _you_ could handle me if I turned violent?” He says disbelievingly, his eyes flicking over your small body as you set the sugar on the table. “No offense, Professor, but you’re tiny. If we got in a fight, I think I’d win.”

“You do?” You ask, setting the milk down next to him – you don’t take milk with your tea.

“Yeah,” he says confidently.

You sigh.

You jab your elbow into his stomach, and within two seconds, his stomach is pressed against the wall, a teaspoon at his throat, both his arms pressed between your body and his, your free hand holding his head back.

You pause.

His breath comes in short pants.

“Do you think you’d win? Do you? Because if I’d bothered to grab a knife instead of a spoon, you’d be dead. If I jabbed your throat instead of your stomach, I’d have popped your windpipe, and you’d be dead. From here, I could slam your head into the wall until you lost consciousness. Do you recognize how many times over you could have just died?”

He realizes that you’re waiting for an answer and grunts. You take it as a yes.

“Now. Take a second. Assess your body. Understand that, while you are uncomfortable, you are not hurt. Having trouble catching your breath, yes, but not hurt. Now I want you to recognize that this is due to my own self-control, not lack of ability. Do you understand that?”

He grunts again.

You release him.

The spoon needs to be washed. You’re not one to stir your tea with a spoon that’s just touched someone’s neck.

You drop it in the dishwasher. “You can leave now, if you’d like. If not, you can sit down, there’s no point in standing.”

To your surprise, he sits.

“Why did you fight Jean Kirstein?”

You sit across from him and spoon sugar into your coffee and wait.

“He tried to punch me.”

“Why?”

He drinks his tea without milk or sugar, wincing as it burns his throat. “He and I have fundamentally different views of the world.”

“Poetic and utterly useless.”

“He’s a violinist and I’m a pianist.”

“Even more useless than your last statement, shithead.”

“He’s a very good violinist, and I’m a mediocre pianist. He’s hoping to get into the Philadelphia Orchestra; I’m hoping to go somewhere small, like where I used to go with my mom when I was little. He made some comments regarding the likelihood of me getting anywhere, I said something about pretentiousness, he said something about low standards, I said something about arrogance, he punched me, I punched back, the professor saw me, and I got hauled in to see the Dean. I guess it’s probably for the best. We were always at each other’s throats anyway.”

He stares down at his mug.

You take a sip from yours and frown. “Do you hate me?”

He looks up. “For what?”

You raise your eyebrows. “For nearly killing you?”

“Oh! No. I get it. You didn’t know why I punched Kirstein, and I wouldn’t tell you, and you did what you had to do to get me to tell. It’s fine.”

You sip your tea.

“You’re not a mediocre pianist.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to say ‘what’ again.

But he doesn’t.

“Thank you.”

Determined, hard-working, intelligent, willing to fight, and _polite_.

“Has there been a backlash against you? From teachers? Students? Those in your music course?”

He shakes his head. “My teachers have been keeping a closer eye on me than usual, but the only students who know were in my music course, and they saw the whole thing. They know he started it.”

You nod. “Good.”

“Professor Levi?”

“Mm?”

“Why are you asking?”

“You just said it yourself, didn’t you? I didn’t know if your outbursts of violent were random, triggered, controlled, uncontrolled…”

“Asking if there’s been any backlash against me doesn’t have to do with violence.”

He has a point. “You interest me. Your university rarely sends me graduate students, let alone undergrads, and the majority of them are violent and ended up in prison within a month of being sent to me. Of those who have a choice, few stay with me past the first class. Even fewer past the second.” You meet his gaze. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re going to back for our next lesson, or if I shouldn’t expect you. What kind of campus are you returning to? Is it one you feel comfortable going back to? Or do you look forward to a class in which no one looks at you strangely?”

He looks at you. “Those who have a _choice_ skip out. I don’t have a choice.”

Of course not. You drain the last of your tea and make a face as the liquid from the bottom of the mug hits your tongue – you didn’t mix well enough, and the sugar fell to the bottom. Too sweet.

“Are you finished?” You ask him.

He hands you his mug. “Thank you.”

You set them in the sink. You’ll clean them later. “I guess it’s a little too late to go over the Mozart by now, isn’t it.”

Eren glances at the clock. “I’ve got time – assuming you aren’t busy, of course.”

You look at him.

He flushes. “I – I’ll go, sorry, I didn’t –”

You wave him back down. “No, no, it’s fine, I’m willing to look it over now if you’ve got time.”

You sit down next to him so you can look at the sheet music at the same angle as he is.

The nightmare doesn’t come that night.


	3. Chapter 3

7:55.

7:56.

7:57.

7:58.

7:59.

8:00.

8:01.

Your stomach drops, leaving you empty, the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your now-hollow torso.

You shouldn’t be surprised.

It’s the third class, after all. You’ve rarely had a student turn up for the third one.

You’ve never been disappointed, either.

Rarely have you had a student you enjoyed teaching.

Eren was different, though, smarter, more determined. Nicer to you.

Not that you deserve it, you suppose.

Even Erwin hasn’t sat down with you for a cup of tea in a long time.

The loud ring of the doorbell shatters your train of thought.

You swing the door open to reveal Eren, out of breath and red in the face.

“Sorry, Professor,” he gasps before you can mention the time. “I was helping a friend with a paper and I lost track of time.”

You let him in, listening to the harsh rasp of his breath. “Did you run here?”

He nods.

“You could have called and told me you were going to be late and walked at a normal pace.”

He shakes his head. “I was trying to get here on time.”

“You’re only two minutes late, you didn’t have to run, moron.”

“You don’t like it when people are late.”

He looks at you, waiting for a response, his breathing quieting down.

“How do you know that?”

“You’re kind of anal about everything, the name I call you and the amount of dirt in your house and how I treat the piano. I figured you’re the same about timing.”

You frown at him for a moment.

He blinks and then flushes bright red. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t – I wasn’t thinking and – I – I’m so sorry, I don’t know what just –”

You wave him into silence. “It’s an accurate description of my personality. I’ll just pretend it didn’t happen. You’re off the hook.”

He follows you meekly into the living room.

“Did you make any progress on Mozart’s sonata?”

“Yes,” he says quietly.

He has nearly the entire first page now, although the end is slightly choppy. You point out the mistake in his fingering, reaching over his shoulder to demonstrate.

“Professor?”

“Yes?”

He ducks his head. “I really am sorry, about earlier – I didn’t mean it like that –”

You tuck a finger under his chin and lift his head so he’s looking at the sheet music again. “I said I’m pretending it didn’t happen, asshat. Bringing it up again is counterproductive.”

“Really though, I –”

“Jaeger. I don’t care. Really.”

“But I –”

“Will it help if I say I forgive you?”

He looks up at you, shock scrawled over his face in the form of wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

You roll your eyes. “Yes, I know what forgiveness is, now relax your face before it sticks that way, you look constipated.”

“Says the guy who literally hasn’t smiled in three classes.”

You sigh. “You just spent seven goddamn minutes humiliated and apologizing because you called me ‘anal,’ don’t talk yourself into a new hole.”

He grins as he turns back to the sheet music.

“Wait, stop there for a moment –” you say before he gets ten measures in. “Play that measure again?”

 He does.

“No – play it like this.” You reach over him and demonstrate the fingering. “There’s no point in twisting your fingers the way you twist your panties. Try it.”

His fingers dance over the keys. “You’re right, that is easier. Thanks, Professor.”

“Of course I’m right.”

He glances up at you.

You sigh. “You’re welcome.”

He grins again.

“I’m thirty years old, brat. I’m too old to learn manners.”

He stops playing to look at you, smirking. “You already said ‘you’re welcome’ once, you can learn to say it on a regular basis.”

You consider breaking his nose for his insolence.

You content yourself with forcibly turning his head so he’s looking at the sheet music again, and choose to ignore his quiet laughter.

He stays for tea again, and you find out that he has a good sense of humor, cracking jokes about what he calls his ‘shift’ from a nice kid to a violent kid, saying that all it takes is some pain and he becomes someone else entirely.

You smile, at one point, for a few seconds, before hiding it in your mug.

You’re pretty sure he notices, though, judging by the tiny grin that hovers around his mouth for ten minutes afterwards.

He smiles easily and often, although you notice that he avoids the subject of his parents, and when you bring it up, he works around it.

He leaves late, that night.

The nightmare doesn’t make an appearance.

The relief you feel when you wake up is overshadowed by a question: if pain sets him off, if pain caused him to punch Jean Kirstein, then why didn’t he fight back when you slammed him into the wall?


	4. Chapter 4

The shrill sound of the doorbell rings uselessly through the house; you’re already opening the door, standing aside to let Eren in before the noise fades away.

“Were you waiting for me at the door or something?” He asks.

“I figured you’d be on time.”

“I didn’t even get to ring the doorbell!”

“Yes, you did, shitface, I heard it.”

He rolls his eyes as he kicks off his shoes, but the eye-roll is halfhearted and nowhere near offensive enough to anger you.

He sits down at the piano and takes a deep breath. “Ok. I tried something new, and it worked, a little.”

“Sounds good to me. Go ahead.”

He scoots around on the bench for a second, reminding you strongly of a dog circling around a blanket before settling down to sleep, before placing his fingers on the keys.

You notice the instant he moves onto the new section, his fingers stuttering over the keys, tripping over themselves, the steady tempo entirely gone. You can see a red flush creeping up his face, and he glances up at you, but you wave for him to continue.

He plays through an entire page like that.

When his fingers finally fall flat, slipping off the keys into his lap, he looks up at you.

“You figured it would be better to learn an entire page and perfect it all at once than to learn a measure at a time?” You guess.

He nods. “It was taking me so long, and switching from measure to measure was so hard – I figured there had to be a better way to learn this, right? And this way, I don’t have to learn a measure, learn the next measure, go back and play the two together, learn the next measure, play that and the one before it together, and then play the three together – it just took so long, and it wasn’t working very well, so – I mean, I can only get better, right? Switching up the way I learn can’t _hurt_ , so it can only _help_.”

You nod. “Well, I suppose I can’t actually tell you how best to learn. You’ve got to make your own choices and hope they’re the right ones.”

He watches you wearily. “So it’s all right?”

“Do you think it is?”

“Is this a trick question?” He asks suspiciously.

“No, dickwad, it’s an actual question. Do you think this is the best way for you to learn?”

He throws his hands up in the air. “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you!”

“And what will you do when you stop taking lessons with me? Who’s gonna tell you how to learn best for the rest of your life? You won’t always have a piano teacher, but until the day you die you’ll have yourself. So I’ll ask you one more time. Do _you_ think that this is the best way for you to learn this song? It’s different from how you’ve learned every other song, but this is also the hardest one you’ve had to learn so far, and certainly the longest, assuming you plan on learning all three movements. So do you think you need to learn it a different way, or do you want to stick to the old method?”

His eyebrows pull together and he bites his lip as he glares furiously at the sheet music, as though it’s somehow the fault of the notes on the page that you’re asking him this question. Finally he looks up at you and nods.

“I think I’m going to learn it this way.”

“Then that’s how we’ll do things.”

“What if it turns out to be the wrong thing to do? What if I can’t actually learn this way?”

“We’ll face that if it happens.”

“But –”

“Jaeger. It’s a piano song. This isn’t a matter of life and death, and even if it was, worrying would be useless. You’ve decided that the old method wasn’t working and that you need to try a new one. You’re trying the new one. Like you said, the old one wasn’t working anyway, so why does it matter?”

He huffs.

“Play that page again. Let’s see if you can clean it up a bit.”

He places his hands on the keys again.

“Wait. Eren. Use your second finger instead of your third, it’ll – why are you looking at me like that?”

He grins up at you with bright eyes. “I honestly didn’t think you knew my first name.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“That’s the first time you’ve ever called me ‘Eren’ instead of ‘Jaeger’ or something to do with shit.”

You think back through his lessons.

He might be right.

Oh well.

“Just play, fuckface.”

“Did you choose that specifically ‘cause it doesn’t have anything to do with asses or shit?”

You inhale deeply and dig deep down for patience. “Play.”

He laughs.

You gently hit him in the back of his head.

His hair is soft.

“Play.”

He laughs as he plays.

You stop him halfway through his new page, brushing his hand aside to demonstrate the timing.

You frown. “Your hand is cold.”

“No, it’s not.”

You press your hand against his. “There’s a clear fucking temperature difference.”

“That just means your hands are hot.”

“My hands are a comfortable temperature. How can you play with cold fingers?”

“Well, I’m playing just fine – or, well, as well as I can without knowing the song.”

You head towards the thermostat. “Go ahead, try that measure with the proper timing.”

“You don’t have to turn up the temperature for me. Doesn’t that hurt the piano? Temperature changes like that?”

“A few degrees won’t kill it.”

There’s silence behind you as you fiddle with the thermostat. “I thought I told you to play?”

“You’re changing the temperature for me?”

You look at him over your shoulder.

He stares right back, undaunted by your blank gaze.

You turn back to the thermostat. “Yes. Now play.”

After a second, music rises like a life raft, a barrier against further questions that you don’t know the answer to.

You had trouble with the thermostat because you’ve never used it before. The temperature in this room has been set at 65 degrees since you moved in.

Eren was playing just fine with cold hands, so why did you change the temperature?

You frown at the wall.

“Jaeger – that’s supposed to be an eighth note there.”

“Shit.”

You return to his side, watching his slim fingers trail over the keys, up and down the keyboard, listening to the adagio start and stop according to Eren’s mastery of it.

You find yourself watching his face instead.

He’s very expressive, his forehead perpetually furrowed as he glances from the keys to the notes and back again. His determination is strangely similar to anger, his gaze equally fiery, equally focused.

“That’s supposed to be an E flat.”

“Fucking –” He returns and corrects it.

The hour passes like that, and by the end, you’re pleased with his progress. He doesn’t seem to agree, wondering aloud if he’d have learned faster if he hadn’t switched methods.

“Maybe, maybe not. You don’t know, and you can’t know, so there’s no point in agonizing over it.”

“But what if –”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “No.”

You remove your hand, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him lick his lips.

That can’t be hygienic. He has no idea when you last washed your hands.

You make him tea.

“We had to read this article for class, and it was the stupidest thing I’d ever read – I swear, I lost brain cells reading it…”

Your lips twitch into a smile, and you’re grateful to be facing the counter instead of him.

You bring the tea to the table and he takes his mug gratefully, wrapping his hands around it.

“Are your hands still cold?”

“Not now that I’m holding this, no.”

“Turning up the temperature didn’t help?”

He shrugs. “I always have cold hands.”

“Maybe I should sew you gloves or something.”

He laughs. “I’ll play piano in mittens from now on. My fingers will slip around like Bambi when he learned how to walk.”

You look at him blankly. “I never saw that movie.”

He gapes at you. “What?”

“I never saw Bambi.”

He draws in the deepest breath you’ve ever heard. “I have to fix this.”

You snort. “What are you gonna do, asswipe? Illegally download Bambi and watch it with me?”

That’s exactly what he was gonna do, as it turns out.

He makes you bring him your laptop so he can go on some random site and download _Bambi_ , probably downloading fifty viruses in the process, insisting all the while that this particular site is virus-free.

“If I have to get my computer cleaned out like a pervert who watches too much porn–”

“You won’t, I promise,” he assures you, sitting next to you on your couch. “This site’s fine, I use it all the time.”

You glare at him. “All right, but my computer is a few years old, and I don’t know how good the anti-virus software is, and if you get shit on my computer, I will _end_ you.”

“Okay, but don’t do it yet, you’ve gotta watch Bambi first.”

He doesn’t sound particularly threatened.

He doesn’t seem to be bothered by anything you do, really.

The movie starts.

He turns the volume up.

 

Seventy minutes later, you’re in mild shock. “That’s a _kid’s_ movie?”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance over.

Eren’s asleep, his head resting on the back of your couch, lips slightly parted, his hair swept across his forehead.

You reach out and brush it back into place.

He looks so peaceful, calm, quiet, so different from the focused man you know, that you almost worry he’s been replaced with a doppelganger.

But no, you know Eren. You’ve barely spent a few hours with him, but you would know his face anywhere, sharp and symmetrical, with his pointy chin and his small nose. It would be difficult to replicate his strong neck, too, which appears even longer with his head tipped back like that.

It’s strangely comforting to know that he can still look peaceful, as though maybe, somehow, his calmness can flow into you, and release you from your nightmare.

You watch him for a moment, the soft rise and fall of his chest and the way the light from the computer screen accentuates his throat.

He’s probably going to drool, if his head tips to the side.

“Eren?”

He wakes with a start, looking around, and when he sees you and realizes where he is, he blushes bright red.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry Professor I didn’t – I didn’t mean to – I don’t –”

You wave him into silence. “It’s not a big deal. Do you need me to drive you back?”

He shakes his head. “No, no, I’ll be fine. I’m sorry, I made you watch the damn movie and I couldn’t even stay awake –”

“Jaeger,” you cut him off, “It’s fine. And I enjoyed the movie, so don’t worry about that. Are you sure you’ll be able to walk home?”

He grins. “You did?”

“Yes. Answer the question.”

“I already did, I said I’d be fine. Do you see what I mean now? About playing piano with mittens being like Bambi learning to walk?”

You picture Eren’s fingers sliding over the keys like a child on ice, and a smile flits across your face. “Yeah. I do.”

His grin widens. The shithead saw you smile. “All right. I’ll leave now. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stay this late –”

“It’s fine.”

He apologizes three more times before leaving.

You don’t have the nightmare that night.

You dream about Eren’s fingers gliding across piano keys instead.


	5. Chapter 5

Eren continues to turn up for classes, arriving on time and leaving late. He laughs more than anyone you’ve met in years.

Maybe a better way to put that would be he laughs around _you_ more than anyone has in years.

You find yourself looking forward to your lessons with him, awaiting the shrill shriek of the doorbell that used to bother you so much, dreading the time when you close the door behind him, finding your house to be lonely and quiet for the first time in years.

You call up Erwin on one of your days without lessons and invite him over for tea.

He doesn’t answer for a moment, and when he does, he sounds shocked – “You want _me_ to come to _your_ house? Did something happen? Do you have bad news that you only want to break to me in person?”

“No. You always tell me I should be more social. I’m being more social.”

“Are you sure?”

“Would I have invited you over if I wasn’t?”

He huffs, a burst of crackles over the phone line. “No. You never did say anything you didn’t mean. What time is best for you?”

“Eight.”

“Perfect. I’ll be there on time.”

“Thank you.”

You can hear him chuckling before he hangs up.

 

He arrives precisely on time, knocking instead of ringing the doorbell, three soft raps on your door instead of the impatient shriek of your doorbell that accompanies Eren.

He pulls off his shoes one-handed, with the left hand that he’s trained to be as useful as his right once was, the right sleeve pinned up and out of the way around the stump of his arm.

Eren has both arms and still insists on toeing off his shoes. The idiot’s going to ruin the backs of them one day, if he hasn’t already.

“What do you take in your tea?”

“You don’t remember? Has it really been that long?”

“A scoop of sugar and milk?”

He smiles. “I knew your memory was better than that.”

He sits at your table, in Eren’s chair, while you boil water.

When you turn back to face him, your eyes go to where Eren’s eyes should be and meet Erwin’s chest instead. Luckily, Erwin doesn’t notice, his own eyes on a piece of dirt on his pants, which he goes to flick off before glancing at you. He wipes it off with a napkin instead.

“How are you doing, Levi? I don’t get down here often enough. You must be lonely.”

“That’s why I invited you over. If I was lonely before, I’d have invited you over before.”

“It’s not good for you to be in here alone all day long.”

“I’m not. I go to the gym at least twice a week.”

“Do you talk to people there?”

“Of course not.”

“Like I said. It’s not good for you to be alone all day long.”

“I don’t do well with people.”

“You don’t even give most of them a chance.”

“How many of them deserve one?”

“All of them.”

You bring the tea to the table instead of answering.

“Levi. What were you fighting for? Why did you go to war?”

You sit with a sigh. “I went to war so people here can be the assholes they want to be without interruption.”

Erwin uncaps the milk, holding the cap in his palm as he pours it. “Levi, I respect you and your decisions, but sometimes I wonder how you make them.”

“I do what I can with the information I have.”

“Levi, we’re not at war anymore. You have enough money to live comfortably for years. You could get a job you like without worrying about the amount you get paid, you could try new things, meet people. I don’t know what information you’re using that says you have to be alone all the time, but it’s faulty. Scrap it. It’s useless and you may as well work from scratch.”

“I’d rather not. Like you said, we’re not at war anymore. This is no longer a life-or-death situation. My decisions affect me and me alone, and I will make them as I see fit.”

“If you say so. I wish you’d take my advice, though.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Erwin sips his tea. “Delicious as always, Levi. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

You sit in silence for a moment, the silence charged with unsaid words and silent worries, and very different from the peaceful silence that falls when Eren stays for tea with you.

“How’s your student doing?” Erwin asks, chipping away at the silence one word at a time. “Any violent outbursts?”

“Quite the opposite, in fact. Jaeger is polite, quiet, and hard-working. I wasn’t surprised to hear that he punched second.”

“What?”

“What to what part of that?”

“Did you just say he punched second?”

“Yes, why? Isn’t that what happened?”

Erwin shakes his head. “Every student I spoke to stated that Eren and Jean punched each other at the same time. I’d almost believe that they could be lying to keep Jean out of trouble, except that one Connie Springer came forward with a video of the altercation after I made it clear that he wouldn’t be punished for having his phone out in class. I’ve watched the video over and over again, and I can’t even tell who drew their arm back first, their timing is so in sync.”

You set your mug down.

Eren lied to you.

“Did Springer get the entire altercation on video?”

“No. According to multiple accounts, it happened very quickly. We’re lucky Connie caught what he did.”

You nod and pick up your mug again.

“Has this changed your opinion of him?”

You mull the question over for a moment before answering. “Not yet. I’d like to know why he lied to me first.”

“He flatly refused to tell me what happened. Jean glossed over some of the more important parts, as well, citing a bad memory and the speed with which everything happened as the reason behind his inability to tell me precisely what he said.”

“You didn’t punish either of them for it?”

“Jean spent quite a bit of time assisting his teacher. And Eren got sent to you.”

Of course. You _were_ the punishment.

You suppose you should have understood that from the moment Erwin asked you to take Eren as a student.

“It’s a long punishment, don’t you think?”

Erwin shrugs. “I expected him to come back to me begging to be moved back into his class. I was ready to move him back in as soon as he asked. I suppose it’s for the best, though; his teacher isn’t happy with the idea that he might come back. He would have been happy to kick both Eren _and_ Jean out, for good, but I decided that removing one of them from the equation was enough. Speaking of which, you don’t have the power to give him a grade, and he needs a grade to get the credits for the course. His teacher is willing to have him back in the classroom for his midterm, but only with supervision. Would you be willing to go in for that class?”

“Just how far are you willing to go to get me out of my house?”

Erwin smiles guiltily. “Several miles, at least.”

“A literal measurement for a figurative question.”

“How’d you like me to measure, then?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Erwin’s smile has always seemed strange to you. The man always looks like he’s about to be approached by the Queen of England, solemn and uptight, like a smile might break him. But his smiles are always happy and genuine, and the one he’s wearing now is no exception. “So. Will you come in?”

“What day is it?”

“Two weeks from today.”

“I’ll come in.”

The conversation drifts to Erwin’s job.

Before he leaves, he writes down the name and number of Eren’s music teacher, so you can get the material he needs to learn for his midterm.

Erwin is one of your best friends, and the only one you still see or talk to on a semi-regular basis. You moved into this house when the two of you got home from Afghanistan specifically to live near him, your old commander and one of the only people you can stand to talk to.

When you close the door behind him, a knot in your stomach loosens, and your shoulders drop.

You recognize the physical signs of relief.

Your jaw tightens and you shift your weight to the balls of your feet, ready to run, to move in whatever direction you must.

You recognize the physical signs of fear.

You understand that the fear stems directly from the recognition of your relief.

You understand that you are afraid because you feel the same relief whenever Eren walks through your door.

Eren is your student, more than a decade younger than you are, and you’re absolutely sure he doesn’t feel relief when he walks through your door. If he’s at all intelligent, he feels something more along the lines of fear or anxiety.

You hope, selfishly, that he doesn’t find out that he can switch back into his class.

Perhaps you should tell him he can.

No point in drawing this out any longer than necessary.

You don’t actually _need_ him around, you just _want_ him around. Ending that now will save you time and trouble later.

 

It’s only when you wake up, sweating, shaking, and already halfway out of bed, that you understand that you were wrong.

You need Eren. He stops the nightmare. You take Erwin’s visit as proof that it’s not just company that stops the nightmare, it’s Eren, it’s that asswipe of a kid, the piece of shit you’re willing to leave your house for.

When did that even happen?

How?

You never talked to him about anything special. He’s certainly not the first person to make you laugh. You’ve met better piano players, you’ve had other students.

But Eren’s face is the one that calms you down, the one that calms your heart rate within minutes of sitting down at your piano.

You’ve never met anyone so determined, focused, intelligent, considerate –

You halt your train of thought in its tracks. You don’t need to list all of his good characteristics. In any case, they all boil down to one thing: you need him.

You play Mozart’s fourth sonata three times straight through before padding silently back into your bedroom, finding your sheets dry and cold against your skin.


	6. Chapter 6

Eren nods at the paper in your hand as you shut the door behind him. “What’s that?”

“Study sheet for your midterm.”

“You’re making me take a midterm?”

“No, your teacher is. Apparently, I don’t actually have the power to give you a grade, and without a grade, you don’t get the credits for this course. So you need to take your midterm with everyone else, in your normal classroom, with your normal teacher.”

“He’s letting me come back?” He says in a voice laced with shock.

“No. He’s letting you take your midterm with everyone else, on the condition that I go and sit in the classroom, in case there’s any violence.”

He frowns. “How’d you get around _that_ condition?”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

He snorts. “What, are you saying you’re _actually_ going to go sit in on my class, just so I can take the damn midterm?”

“Yes, you thickskulled moron. I am _actually_ going to go sit in on your class, because that what’s gotta happen for you to get the grade.”

He blinks at you like a goddamn owl.

“What?”

“You’re leaving your house? To go sit in a room full of students? For a two-hour long midterm?”

“That’s what I just said, shitbiscuit.”

“Why?”

“Because you need the credits. Isn’t that a little obvious?”

He stares at you as an incredulous smile creeps across his face.

“The hell are you smiling at?”

“You’re willing to do that for me?”

You feel your jaw twitch as you attempt to formulate an answer that has the power to wipe the smile off his face.

You doubt such an answer exists.

You heave a sigh. “Yes.”

You turn on your heel before you can see his smile get any wider. “I’ve looked over the sheets and it’s relatively simple – scales, of course, and their respective chords, and you’ll have to play through two songs of your choice. You’re going to have to sight-read a solo song, and the week before the midterm – next class – you’re going to receive a song that you’ll have to play to the best of your ability with the rest of the class. For your two songs, I would recommend playing Beethoven’s Fifth and the minuet you played for me last week. I can’t see the Mozart being done in time, especially since I’m putting it on hold for a little while – we’re practicing sight-reading today, and we’re going to spend the next couple classes practicing the song you’ll have to play with the class.”

He nods as he sits down.

You ignore his smug grin as you drop into the chair next to the piano. “Just play through the scales and chords real quick, make sure you’ve got them all.”

He runs through them quickly, up two octaves and down two octaves for each scale, followed by the accompanying chords. You have him run through the Beethoven, the minuet, and the Mozart – he laughs when you suggest it but flatly refuses to tell you why, the shitbag – and spends the last half hour of class sight-reading, playing through one song after another of varying difficulties as you set them in front of him.

When you finally allow him to stop, he looks mildly relieved, stretching his fingers and cracking his neck. He follows you into the kitchen, but instead of sitting down, he gets out mugs and spoons.

He’s the only one who’s ever helped you.

You suppose he’s the only one who’s ever been comfortable enough in your home to help you.

You find yourself watching him as he opens the cabinet doors, searching for the sugar. He stares into each cabinet like he’s searching for its hidden secrets and sugar, his face showing the same determination it does when he’s attempting a particularly difficult song.

You sigh and reach into the cabinet above your head.

When you turn to face him, sugar in hand, his eyes flicker up to your face.

Up? Where was he looking before?

You briefly consider the angle of his eyes and come to the conclusion that he was staring at your ass.

You stare at him.

He flushes bright red, his heated skin a gorgeous contrast with his cool blue-green eyes.

“I believe you were looking for this?”

He doesn’t move for a moment, reminding you vaguely of a deer in headlights.

He slowly reaches out his hand.

His fingers brush over yours.

You fail entirely to comprehend how a single moment involving the passing of a container of sugar from one person to another could possibly be more charged than any moment of your entire military career.

Eren silently takes his seat as you turn back to the kettle.

You wonder idly if he’s staring at your ass again, and if the answer is yes, if you should beat him up and kick him out of your house.

You decide against it.

You bring the tea to the table, pour it into the mugs, and sit down.

You sip your tea.

Eren is avoiding your gaze.

He couldn’t have confirmed his actions better if he’d said it out loud.

“Are you going to drink your tea?”

“I – yeah, of course,” he says quickly.

He doesn’t drink his tea.

You let him stew in silence for a minute, watching him stare with perfect focus into his slowly cooling mug, examining the way his shoulders hunch over when he’s embarrassed – or guilty – or both – and the way he chews on his upper lip when he hunts for a way to break the silence.

“You did very well today,” you say finally. “I was impressed.”

“Really?” He says, his head springing up.

You nod. “You’re always very surprised when you do well. You shouldn’t be. You rarely fail to… impress me.” You decide against saying ‘please me.’ You feel that that would be inappropriate, with the current electrical charge that appears to be holding steady between the two of you.

Of course, the pause before ‘impress’ probably didn’t help either.

Oh well.

You’ve never second-guessed one of your decisions and you’re not starting now.

“Levi?”

The sound of your name catches your attention. He rarely calls you anything other than ‘Professor.’ “Yes?”

He takes a deep breath.

God, you hope this doesn’t get any more awkward than it already is.

“Why are you nice to me?”

You set your mug down. “What kind of a shitty question is that?”

“Well, I’m a nineteen year old shithead who takes up a hell of a lot of your time, and now, because of me, you have to visit the university for two hours. Why are you even remotely nice to me?”

“Why did you lie to me?”

You can practically see him mentally switching gears.

You pick up your mug again and wait to see if he’ll figure out what you’re talking about.

“What?”

You suppose you really did bring it up out of nowhere. In your defense, he was asking a question you really don’t know the answer to – or, you know it, but considering your current student-teacher relationship, you feel that informing him that you feel some strange mixture of love and infatuation for him would be improper. “Erwin Smith mentioned to me that you and Kirstein punched at the same time. You said you punched second. Why did you lie?”

“I – I didn’t know you talked to him on such a regular basis,” he says slowly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You didn’t answer me, either.”

“Is my answer really important?”

“Is mine?” He shoots back.

“Yes. Previously, I was going based on the assumption that you punched because you were punched – not that that made sense anyway, considering your nonviolent reaction to being shoved against a wall. Clearly, I was wrong. I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing I do will enrage you, but I don’t know if that will hold true in a classroom setting. I’d like some warning before I go running into an unknown situation.”

“Do you really have that little faith in me?” He asks angrily.

“When did I say that? I said I don’t intend to walk into an unfamiliar situation unprepared.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“How do I know?”

He crosses his arms across his chest. “You’ll be there. I don’t want to make it harder for you than it already is.”

You snort. “Harder for me? It won’t be _hard_ , it’ll be vaguely annoying. Unless, of course, I miss whatever it is that irritates you. _Then_ it’ll be hard.”

“You just don’t want to answer my question.”

“That’s partially true. And yet, my question is still more important. So answer it, shitstain.”

“Why are you such a dick?”

“I do what I have to.”

“You don’t have to be such a dick about it,” he says pointedly.

“Two seconds ago, you said I was nice. Now I’m a dick. Which is it?”

“Two seconds ago, you were _being_ nice. Now you’re being a dick.”

“You’re just avoiding the question.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll be taking the midterm, Horse Face won’t get the chance to open his stupid mouth.”

“Horse Face?”

“Kirstein. He looks like a horse.”

You sigh. “You really can’t tell me?”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, and shakes his head frantically.

“Why not?”

“I – it’s – stupid.”

You take a deep breath. “That wasn’t even a full sentence and you still managed to spew so much shit, I feel like I’m in a diarrhea apocalypse.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He asks, shoving the chair back as he stands.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that what Kirstein did? Did he say you were full of shit?”

“What the hell makes you think that?” He yells.

“Because I did, and then you stood, threw your chair backwards, and started yelling.”

He blinks and glances down.

Did he not notice how worked up he was getting?

It would explain a lot.

He sits back down. “You don’t have to worry about me hurting you,” he mutters.

“About you hurting _me_? _Me_ specifically?” Moron, getting his pronouns mixed up.

“You, specifically,” he says, so quietly you doubt you were meant to hear it. And then he heaves a deep breath and says, a little louder, “No one. I won’t hurt anyone. It’s – not stupid, I guess. Just – personal.”

You open your mouth to push farther, but he glances up at you, and his bright eyes pin you in place.

So you ask a different question. “Did Kirstein know what he was doing?”

Eren nods.

“Then the likelihood of him doing it again is minimal?”

He nods again.

“All right.”

You sit in silence for a moment before Eren stands. “I guess I should go.”

You glance at the clock. “Don’t be an idiot, it’s been twenty minutes and you haven’t even drunk your tea.”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me. Sit down.”

He sits and looks at his tea. “My tea is cold.”

“I’ll warm it up for you.” You stand and reach for it.

“It’s fine.”

“You just said it was cold.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“Why bother, when I can just stick it in the microwave?”

You both reach for it at the same time, and his fingers leave trails of stars where they graze against yours.

You leave your hand there.

He withdraws his, staring at you with wide eyes.

You stare back, unable to pull your eyes away from his, tugged into their depths like they were pulling you down, dragging you down into the warm, salty, clean ocean –

He blinks, and the connection is lost, and you wrap your hand around the cool mug and turn away.

You’re his teacher. You’re his teacher and he’s your student and this can’t happen, this isn’t allowed to happen, it’s an incredible abuse of power.

You should have let him leave.

But you didn’t, and now you’re reheating his tea because it was cold and you decided that reheating cold tea was the best way to get him to stay.

You made a bad decision.

There’s no excuse for the decision you made. The decisions you’re making, now, present tense.

There’s a strange feeling in your stomach.

You recognize it as regret.

It’s a feeling you haven’t been burdened with in quite some time.

You can’t remember the last time you actually allowed yourself to regret a decision you made – you can’t remember the last time you made a decision you had need to regret.

And yet here you are, knowingly making decisions you regret.

Well, if you’re making them knowingly, you’d better not regret them.

The microwave beeps.

You carry the mug back to Eren, carefully avoiding his eyes.

He takes it, carefully avoiding your fingers.

You sit and stare into your empty mug.

You should’ve put it in the dishwasher when you got up.

You sit in silence until Eren clears his throat.

“You never answered my question, from before,” he says quietly.

“What – oh. Why am I nice to you.” Fuck tea, you need coffee for this. Or alcohol. That would probably work better. It’s a shame you don’t drink. “Am I really nice to you? I curse at you like crazy.” You frown. “Actually, when am I _not_ being a dick to you?”

Eren’s eyes go wide and then meet yours, and then he’s laughing, laughing until he cries, until you’re smiling at him, smiling at his sudden joy and his wide grin and his happy laughter, smiling until he wipes the saltwater from his eyes and looks at you.

You smother your smile.

He sees it first, though, and his smile softens, becomes something different, something you don’t particularly want to analyze.

“Your curses aren’t even remotely insulting, Levi. Come on. We both know you curse at everyone regardless of whether or not you like them. And you’re _never_ a dick to me. You’re incredibly nice, actually.”

You wince. “I’ve gotta work on my insults, then.”

“You’re avoiding the question, Levi,” he says in a high-pitched voice presumably meant to be an imitation of yours.

You roll your eyes. “I see no reason to be mean to you.”

“Not being mean doesn’t mean you’re being _nice_.”

You tilt your head to the side and listen to your neck cracking.

“Stalling,” Eren sings.

“You’re a brat.”

He flutters his eyelashes at you. “And you love me for it.”

You stare at him, too distracted by the sudden flip in your stomach to answer.

He stares right back, wearing an enormous shiteating grin.

When did this become acceptable?

Why aren’t you contradicting his statement?

You lift your mug and drink before remembering it’s empty.

Eren laughs. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

You choose not to respond.

Eren switches the subject to something lighter that you don’t pay much attention to, and ends up staying fifteen minutes later than normal.

When he leaves, you feel mildly lightheaded, and your face feels strange – you identify the feeling as the pain that comes from smiling too hard for too long.

He’s your student and you’re his teacher.

You’re his teacher and he’s your student.

This isn’t something you can do, he isn’t yours to have, you can’t let him make you this happy, you can’t let him make you smile and take away your nightmare and treat you like a person.

Of course, he won’t always be your student. You’re nearly halfway through the semester already.

And at the end of the semester, when he gets the grade – and he will; you’re not lying to him when you tell him he’s an incredible pianist – he might forget about you, might decide that the walk to visit a shut-in who hardly smiles is just too much, or not worth it.

You drop a hand on your piano, steadying yourself, dizzy with fear that the day will come when the clock strikes eight and you’ll open the door and Eren won’t be there, with his warm blue-green eyes a source of warmth in the autumn air and his smile the perfect antidote to the depression and regret that walks at your heels waiting to strike and his voice the only sound better than that of your piano.

Would you let yourself like him if you weren’t essentially a hermit?

You lie in bed and worry over the question for an hour, hunting for some way to be sure that you would still like Eren past the simple matter of enjoying his company if you were someone else, someone less bitter or less apathetic or –

The list continues but your mind doesn’t follow it, and somewhere between the time when you lie down and the time when you fall asleep you get caught in Eren’s face when he smiles and his ability to pull you into conversation and the noises he draws from your piano and the billions of other things he does, and your mind follows that list instead.

The nightmare doesn’t come that night.


	7. Chapter 7

Eren stretches as he stands. “You’ll definitely be there, Monday?”

“Yes,” you reassure him for the umpteenth time, standing to show him to the door.

“And you think I’m prepared?”

“More than prepared. Everything you can do, you’ve done fifty times over.”

He slips on his boots as you open the door.

You frown.

He glances from you to outside and back to you in confusion.

“That’s snow.”

“Yeah, it’s snowing.”

“It’s already piling up.”

“Yeah, they’re predicting a lot of snow.”

“It’s not even November yet!”

“Something to do with some storm a couple states over and some weird weather patterns here and – yeah. Sciencey stuff. Yeah, it’s snowing.”

You shut the door. “Take your boots off, you’re not going home now. You’re not walking through that. I’ll drive you home tomorrow, after it’s all been plowed and salted.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” he protests, but he’s already taken off one boot.

“I wish I had a guest room, but I don’t, so you’ll have to take the couch.”

He punches the air. “That couch is the most comfortable place I have ever put my butt.”

Your eyes flicker to his butt.

You’ve noticed over the course of the past couple days that he has a nice ass.

You’ve stopped trying not to notice. You strongly suspect that he’s been mentioning it more often for the specific purpose of drawing your attention, the assbiscuit.

After twenty minutes spent having a discussion that he calls an ‘argument’ about hygiene and clothing, he decides to sleep in his boxers, which you suppose was inevitable.

“I hate snow,” he remarks. “It’s like – cold white dirt, falling from the sky. How is that even remotely fun? Unless you’re having a snowball fight and throwing it at people you hate, of course. That’s pretty fun.”

“Idiot, snow is literally water, it’s the opposite of dirt.”

“Does it matter? If you get trapped in either one, you’re dead. It gets everywhere and you can’t get it out, and it makes a mess. So in the end it’s basically the same, isn’t it?”

You roll your eyes.

But when you close the door to your bedroom – the first time you’ve ever closed that door before bed – you look out your window and see dirt, dirt, pulling you under, trapping you, falling from the sky in its endless attempts to suffocate you, and when you fall asleep, the door is there.

Heavy, wooden, but it opens with the slightest touch.

The man raises his gun.

You look down the barrel of the gun that will kill you. It will kill you. You will die and because you’re dead other people will die, people with families, people with lives to lead.

And then your savior appears in the form of a girl, a girl who sees you and cries out.

And you look at her.

You look her in the eye.

And you raise your gun.

And pull the trigger.

The bullet leaves your gun.

And she says your name.

You squeeze the handle of your gun in shock, and she says your name again.

And you open your eyes.

You can’t breathe, you can’t breathe and your throat hurts and you’re trapped in soaked sheets and your hand isn’t squeezing a gun, it’s squeezing Eren’s _throat_ and you’re moving, moving away from him, tumbling across the bed and catching yourself before you hit the floor and you nearly run face-first into your door on the way out of the room and Eren says your name again but you’re at your piano already, the harsh sound of a loud minor seventh chord drowning out his voice and flying into the next note at a tempo three times the speed it was meant to be played at, grating against your ears and your mind and scrubbing you clean of the eyes that had watched you as you pulled the trigger, too young even to judge you for it.

The bench creaks as Eren sits next to you.

He doesn’t say a word about the force with which you’re hitting the keys.

You suppose you’ll be grateful about that in the morning.

You feel a gentle hand on your forehead, brushing your hair out of your eyes.

Your hair’s covered in sweat. Eren should probably wash his hand.

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

You sigh and let the noise fade away with your breath.

“Are you all right?” You ask softly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I’m fine. Are _you_ all right?”

“I will be.” You look up at his neck and tilt your head, your gaze following the quickly-forming bruises that wrap around his throat. “You’re not all right.”

He huffs and covers the bruises with his hand. “You’re the one who was screaming yourself hoarse and thrashing around like a fish out of water, not me.”

You flinch. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

“How could you have known? What, does it happen every night?”

“Not every night,” you mutter, replacing your hands on the keys. “Wanna hear what that song’s supposed to sound like?”

“Sure.”

So you play it at the normal tempo, the harsh grating noises softening to something bearable, musical, quiet and soothing.

“You’re really good,” he says when you finish.

“What, is that surprising?”

“I’ve never heard you play before.”

You frown. “Really?”

“Really.”

You think back on your numerous lessons with him and find that he’s right.

“You’ve never heard me play and still trusted me to teach you properly?”

“Well, you always seemed to know what you were talking about, and when you played bits of whatever I was playing, they always sounded fine.”

You heave in a deep breath.

“What?” He says defensively. “I was right, you can play piano just fine. So who cares?”

“What if I couldn’t?”

“You’re still a great teacher,” he points out. “So who cares? I mean, you knew whenever I made a mistake in Mozart’s sonata, and you can’t play _that_ , so what’s the big deal?”

You look at him, at his cool, clean, Caribbean blue eyes, and wonder when he sat down so close to you, his shoulder nearly touching yours, his eyes just inches away from yours and his mouth equally close.

“What?”

“Who ever said I couldn’t play Mozart’s Sonata No. 4?”

“Can you?” he asks incredulously.

You suppress a smile and turn back to the keys.

Twelve minutes later, he’s staring at you in open-mouthed shock, muttering something under his breath that sounds vaguely like “all three movements.”

“Of course you can play it. Of course you can.”

“It was one of the first songs I learned. I hadn’t played it in years when you walked in with it.”

“Must’ve been weird, huh. To see a kid learning one of your first songs.”

“No. It’s a beautiful song. It’s no surprise you want to learn it.”

“How long did it take you to learn it?”

“Three weeks.”

“For the first movement?”

“For the whole thing.”

He whistles. “No wonder you called me a tone-deaf shit canoe.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry about that.”

He laughs. “It’s fine.”

You glance at the clock. “It’s one in the morning. You’re probably tired. I should let you sleep.”

He shakes his head. “Not until I know you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“What do you usually do when you have nightmares?”

“Play piano until the sun comes up.”

“It takes you that long to feel better?”

“Usually, yeah.”

“Than how are you possibly feeling better _now_?” he asks in frustration.

“You’re here.”

You glance up at him.

He’s staring at you, eyes wide and lips parted.

“I don’t have nightmares the days we have lessons. I didn’t bother warning you because I assumed I wouldn’t have it tonight, either.”

“Why _did_ you have it tonight?”

“You said something about snow being like dirt.”

“So, it was my fault,” he says slowly. “I – I’m so sorry, Levi, I –”

“No, it wasn’t,” you say harshly. “You couldn’t have known, and it’s not like I don’t have the damn nightmare on a regular basis anyway. And look.” You press two fingers to your wrist, feeling your pulse, calm and steady, and you hold out your wrist to him. “My pulse slowed down already, thanks to you.”

He presses two of his fingers to your wrist.

He has very nice fingers.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

You suppose he should, but you really can’t bring yourself to care.

You look up at him and find him looking at you already, and for the umpteenth time, you find yourself caught in his eyes, falling into a whirlpool of warm water, and you can hear his breathing – or is it yours? – and his heartbeat – or maybe yours – and you lean forward, or he does, and in the morning you’re going to regret this, but his lips are soft and warm against yours, and –

And you decide you won’t regret it. You haven’t regretted anything in years and you’re not going to regret this. You’re not going to regret letting Eren’s tongue inside your mouth, you’re not going to regret sliding your tongue against his, you’re not going to regret letting him straddle the bench and pull you into his lap, and you’re certainly not going to regret pressing your bare torso against his, cradling his face in your hands as you kiss him.

His hands curve inside your boxers and over the curve of your ass, and he gasps out, “Tell me you have lube somewhere –”

 “Bedroom, somewhere,” you say as you pull yourself off of him.

“Somewhere? You don’t know where?”

“It’s been a little while since I needed them, assface.”

He grins. “You think my face is an ass? Well, that explains why you were sucking it so hard.”

You go to slap him, but end up grabbing him by his soft hair and dragging his face down to yours, which you really can’t be blamed for – his lips were parted, curved into a grin, soft and inviting, and he doesn’t object to your kiss – he pulls you against him, hands roaming down your back and sides and dipping inside your boxers.

You tug him backwards into your room, gasping as you pull away from his mouth to fling open your closet door.

“I’m surprised,” he says breathlessly. “Everything’s so clean I figured you’d know where everything is.”

Your hand flashes out and pulls a bottle of lube out of a box, and after another second or so your hand hits an open box of condoms. “I do know where everything is, brat.”

“Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

“Ruining the mood.”

“What mood?”

“This one.” You grab him and pull him against you, wrapping your arm around his neck and dragging him towards your bed, letting him push your boxers down as you go, nearly tripping over them as you kick them down. You drop the condoms and lube on the bed when you fall back on it, grabbing Eren’s boxers and pulling them down, paying no attention to his gasp of surprise when you lean forward and swirl your tongue around the head of his dick, paying acute attention to the moan that works its way out of his throat when you pull his dick into your mouth and sink down.

His hands find your hair, but it’s too late, you’re pulling off his dick with a pop and ripping open a condom – like hell you’re blowing him and letting him pass out next to you – and pulling it down his dick, listening to the sharp snap of the bottle of lube being opened.

You barely get the condom all the way on before he pushes you backwards, his mouth finding yours as he slides between your legs and rubs slow circles around your asshole with his cold finger coated in colder lube, and you hitch your legs back, giving him room to press inside you, one finger at a time, moving impossibly slowly, his fingers incredibly gentle inside you.

It’s strange.

You’ve never been one for gentleness.

But when he slides inside you, his warm body moving against yours in the dark, his lips just millimeters away from yours, his eyes so close you can feel yourself falling into them, your breath mingling with his as you wrap yourself tighter around him in an eternal quest to be closer to him, your nails trailing over his back as he skims one hand up your side – you find yourself doing the same thing you’ve been doing since he woke you up, consciously choosing to do things you wouldn’t normally do – going at Eren’s pace, matching his rhythm, happy to roll your hips and meet his and feel him move slowly inside you, adjusting his hips until he finds the right spots to hit, and listen to his moans grow with yours until his rhythm falters, speeding up, his breath coming in short bursts between kisses, one of his hands finding yours, the other hand finding your cock, his thin pianist’s fingers working you over until you cum just seconds before he does, pulling his body against yours as you shudder and bite your lip against a scream.

He slides out of you, and, shockingly, instead of collapsing next to you, he reaches for the tissue box, kissing you as he wipes off your stomach.

You pull him down onto the bed with you after he throws out the tissues, and he pulls you into his arms.

You rest your forehead against his chest, and this close to him, you can almost differentiate between his heartbeat and yours.


	8. Chapter 8

You wake up with your head on Eren’s chest.

He’s still asleep, you can tell by the evenness of his breathing.

So you give yourself five minutes. Five minutes, no more and no less.

And you take them. You take the chance to be fully aware, to be aware of Eren’s skin and his body, and of both of your bodies, intertwined, bathed in the pinkish morning light that seeps through your windows. You take deep breaths, smelling his soap and sweat and hints of whatever cologne it is he wears, the sharp smell dimmed by the amount of time between yesterday morning and now. You press your fingers into his skin, gently, not nearly enough to wake him, feeling its firmness, its smoothness, tracing muscles and veins and tendons, taking note of marks and scars whose stories you’ll never know.

You bury your face in his neck and hold him a little more tightly as your time ticks away.

And when your five minutes run down to zero, you crack off a piece of your heart and leave it with him as you disentangle your body from his, separating yourself from him.

You look at his peaceful face for a moment before turning to your dresser, silently sliding open drawers as you collect clothing, which you carry into the bathroom with you.

You place your clothing in a neat pile on the floor and start the shower.

For the first time in your life, you look at the hot water with apprehension.

You don’t want to shower.

You don’t want to scrub off the evidence of last night, you don’t want to wash off his smell or clean where he touched.

But you’ve already had your five minutes.

So you step into the shower and wash him off of your body, watching the water cascade down your body and down the drain.

A chill runs down your back, and you take the fastest shower you’ve ever taken in your life.

You head out into the kitchen, dry and fully dressed, to find Eren already there and dressed.

He shakes the box of cheerios in his hand. “I figured this is what you usually eat?”

You nod.

“Are you feeling better this morning?”

“Yes, thank you,” you say stiffly.

“Do you wanna tell me what the nightmare was about?”

You open your mouth.

There it is, the door, the door that you walk through – that you used to walk through every single night, every single night, until Eren walked through your door – and you open it and he’s standing there and you can’t get past him, you can’t look away from the barrel of his gun, and so instead of telling Eren about the faces that haunt you night after night, you just say “no.”

He nods. “All right.”

“Do you want coffee?” you ask as you spoon coffee grinds into a filter.

“Please,” he says gratefully.

His arms snake around your waist and presses his face into your hair.

You take a deep breath.

“Please don’t say anything,” he begs. “You’re going to tell me to stop, you’re going to tell me last night was nothing, you’re going to tell me it was just because you were emotionally compromised or some other bullshit and I don’t want to hear it, please don’t say it –”

“I am your teacher, Jaeger.”

“You aren’t even allowed to give me a grade, don’t give me that –”

“I am your teacher and you are my student. Last night was an abuse of power that won’t happen again.”

“Bullshit,” he spits, pulling away from you. “Hell, if anything, _I_ initiated it. So where’s the abuse?”

“You need me to get your credits, and as such, I am your teacher. I shouldn’t have allowed last night to happen –”

“Aren’t you the one who spews shit about not having any regrets? Making choices and living with them? Will you _look at me_?” He yells, his voice cracking.

You look over at him, at his watery oceanic eyes. “I made my choice, I’m living with it, and I don’t regret it. But it won’t happen again.”

He turns and leaves.

You listen to him pull on his shoes as he walks out the door.

You should go out there, drive him back. The whole reason why he stayed last night was because of the snow. It can’t be much better yet.

But you stand there, coffee grinds in one hand and filter in the other, feet glued to the floor as Eren’s feet carry him away from you as the sun walks up the sky.

You dump the grinds back into the bag and clean up the kitchen.

You haul out the mop and the vacuum and clean the whole house.

You wash your sheets, but you can’t wash the couch, and you find yourself sitting on it, although you can’t figure out why – none of his smell lingers.

You spend the entire weekend playing Mozart’s Sonata and waiting, waiting, because somehow you can’t come to the conclusion that Eren walked out on you and hasn’t called, visited, something –

But he doesn’t, which you really should have expected. You’re an adult, not a lovesick teenager.

But Monday night, as you wrap a scarf around your neck, zip up your jacket, and ignore the acrobatics your stomach is doing, you’re forced to admit to yourself that you might, in fact, be lovesick for the first time in your life, even if you can’t call yourself a teenager anymore.

Your car starts up with a whine, reminding you that you don’t drive it nearly often enough, and you drive the mile and a half to the main parking lot.

Campus is busy, full of students, loud and dirty and stressed out. Students walk past purposefully with coffee in their hands, meander past with friends and coffee in their hands, stand out of the way with their phone and coffee in their hands – you don’t think you’ve ever seen so many coffee cups in your life.

They pay no attention to you, which you don’t have a problem with. You live off-campus for a reason.

There are too many people here.

But when you walk into the music center, you find an atmosphere you could get used to. It’s quieter, if a little dusty, and the students here come second to their music.

You find the classroom and walk into a well-lit and large room full of instruments and students.

Eren sits at a piano in the front of the classroom, the only place it could fit.

You scan the rest of the students, curious as to which one was Jean Kirstein.

“Levi!”

You glance away from the students and see Erwin.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eren jump and twist around.

You ignore him – as well as you can, anyway – and meet Erwin in the middle of the classroom, where he stands with the man who is presumably the professor.

Erwin shakes your hand and turns to face the class. “Class, this is Captain Levi.”

Eren frowns, and you realize you never told him you were a soldier.

“He served under me in Afghanistan, and was one of the most skilled soldiers I have ever had under my command. I can’t tell you how many lives he’s saved.

“He will be sitting in on this class. I expect you all to treat him with respect.”

You nod in thanks, and he introduces you to the professor – Mike Zakarius – and leaves.

“ _You_ were a captain in the military?” asks a disbelieving voice from the back.

“Yes. Did you not hear Erwin? He speaks pretty damn loud. Maybe you should get your ears checked out, dimwit.”

The boy speaks again, and this time you see him – obnoxious, taller than you are, two-toned undercut. “You just look a little _short_ for the army.”

You march up to him and stand, arms behind your back, chin up, glaring down your nose at him. “Name and rank?”

“Jean Kirstein. Why?”

Kirstein.

“Rank?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Why not?”

“Well, Sir,” he says mockingly, “I was never in the military.”

“I didn’t think so. Your lack of respect, of discipline, the total inability to keep from spewing shit like you’re lactose intolerant and you’ve just drunk a gallon of milk – all of these point to a lack of military service. You cannot possibly imagine what was and wasn’t useful in war and what skills were needed, you elitist twat, so shut your mouth before I shut it for you.”

“What skills were needed?” He snorts. “What, did you suck dick to get the rank of captain?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I didn’t suck dick until I got home.”

You turn and walk back to the front of the classroom, resisting the incredibly strong urge to wink at Eren as you pass, ignoring the snickers that rise around you.

You sit and unwrap your scarf as you cross your legs.

“Are you done now, Sir?” The professor asks dryly.

“So long as none of the other shitheads open their mouths.”

“Wonderful.”

He gives them five minutes to warm up.

You wince as discordant music fills the air, none of the students even remotely interested in warming up together.

A familiar strain of piano music floats above it all, and you frown at Eren. Why is he warming up with Mozart?

You have to admit, though, it sounds damn good. You haven’t heard it in a little over a week now. You’d told him to set it aside until after the midterm.

Apparently, he didn’t.

After deciding that the assault on your ears has gone on for long enough, Zakarius stops them with a wave of his hand.

“Sir, would you do me the honor of helping me listen for mistakes?” He asks you courteously.

“Sure.”

You get the strong feeling he finds you mildly amusing.

But you help him anyway, listening as the students run through their scales all at once, noticing that Kirstein is, in fact, an incredibly good violinist, his music entirely devoid of the screeching sound that accompanies beginner violinists.

If he and Eren ever managed to get along, they could make incredible music.

You nod at a cello player who fucked up one of his scales, and Zakarius makes note of it.

Zakarius lets them play through the group song together, and you learn that the class still hasn’t played it together. Eren looks mildly relieved at that, and you’re glad of it too – this way, he won’t be the odd one out, the one who doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the class.

It’s impressive, how fast they pull together, how quickly the tiny disparities in timing and dynamics disappear.

Again, you can’t help but notice how well Eren and Jean work together, how their music complements each other’s, holding steady even in the blend of the other instruments around them. And Eren does blend well with them. The class accepts Eren back in like he never left.

The song ends and whispers flurry around the room, reminders to let the song grow gradually, to take it slow, a reminder to Connie – you recognize his name and turn to look at the short kid with the buzz cut who got Eren and Jean’s altercation on tape – to keep it quiet, for god’s sake, it’s not supposed to blow people’s ears out.

Zakarius ends the noise with a wave of his hand, and starts it again with the same motion, moving them from discussion into music in the space of a second.

The second time around is much more smooth, a testament to the students’ rapport and hard work and Zakarius’s teaching.

You sit back with a sigh as you listen to the incredible concert you’re getting for free, your eyes drifting around the room, watching the students as they glare determinedly at their sheet music, your eyes lingering on Eren, on the way his back curves on the quieter parts, the way he straightens when his hands move across the keyboard. You notice the strength in his fingers in every carefully controlled press of each key, his gentle manipulation of the noises he draws from the piano, the way he flicks his wrist when he has to move from the bottom of the keyboard to the top, the way his hair falls across his face, the glow in his eyes just before the end when he knows he’s almost finished.

He and the other students hold the last note for a moment, drawing it out before dropping it as one, their entire bodies relaxing as they take a deep breath for the first time since they began.

Zakarius moves into the sight-reading section of the exam. He gives each student something short, a page or less, and two chances, no more and no less. Eren passes with flying colors, of course.

And then Zakarius has them play two songs of their choice.

The whole class is good, worth listening to, but Eren – Eren’s performance of Beethoven’s Fifth is the best he’s ever played, and you find that a smile is hovering over your lips by the time he’s done.

Zakarius gives him the go-ahead for his second song, the minuet.

He glances at you, licking his lips nervously, and plays.

It’s not the minuet.

It’s Mozart.

He’s playing Mozart’s Sonata No. 4 and it’s better than he’s ever played it. It’s not perfect, not by any means, but it’s good. Smooth. You can’t tell where one page ends and the next begins, you can’t hear the difference between the parts he’s good at and the parts he has difficulty with.

You do notice one change, though. He’s made a change to the dynamics, substituting a decrescendo for a crescendo in one place. You almost miss it. You’re used to hearing it played like that. That’s how _you_ play it.

He doesn’t go past the first movement, of course.

Zakarius glances at you, eyebrows raised and clearly impressed, and you remember that Eren had been working on it for weeks before he came to you, unable to move past the first few lines. Zakarius would have heard him struggling with it. He’d see the improvement. Shit, _you_ see the improvement, and you just heard him playing it a week ago.

Eren is free to go after that, meaning you are too, and you wrap your scarf around your neck as you stand. Zakarius stops to shake your hand and thank you before moving on to the next student.

Eren follows you out.

“I was impressed, Jaeger,” you say as he opens his mouth. “You did damn well.”

“Levi –”

“Didn’t expect you to play Mozart. It was incredible. If I’d known you were going to play that instead of the minuet, I’d have had you practice it.”

“ _Levi_ –”

“Are you planning on learning the next two movements? They’re just as difficult, but judging by the amount of work you put into the first one, you’ll manage them just fine.”

“ _Levi_!” Eren says loudly.

You turn to face him. “Don’t be so loud, there are other classes around us and they’re all testing.”

“Levi, I – please,” he begs, “please don’t do this to me. I – can we just talk?”

“We talk all the time. And I’m not doing anything to you.”

He huffs and frowns at you. “You’re supposed to be an adult, aren’t you supposed to be the one advocating for communication or something?”

“No, I’m supposed to be the one advocating for balance of power in relationships and removing the potential for abuse from relationships. Which I’m doing.”

“So we’re in a relationship?”

“No.”

He throws his hands in the air. “See, this is what I’m saying! I just –” he seems lost for words for a moment, and you watch him as he flaps his mouth, hunting for words, until he growls and grabs you by the shoulders, fingers digging into your skin. “Do you like me or not? If it weren’t for the student-teacher thing, would I have a chance with you? At all?”

You’d like to say your heart breaks at the thought of saying no, but it shattered when he left you the first time. So it doesn’t cost you much when you brush his hands off your shoulders and say, coldly, “You are my student, and this is not an appropriate conversation to have.”

A door creaks open down the hallway, and you see Connie Springer fumbling with his bag as he leaves the room.

You nod at Eren. “I’ll see you in class on Wednesday.”

You turn and walk away, listening to Connie yell down the hallway at Eren, asking him how he thought he did.

You almost expect him to run after you, to punch you or slap you or kiss you or all three, but he does none of that. You leave the building unharmed.


	9. Chapter 9

You’re dusting the piano when the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Levi, it’s Erwin. How are you?”

“Good, you?” The fuck is he calling for?

It strikes you that he might have heard about what you called Kirstein yesterday. Hell, Springer might have taped it.

Oh well.

“I’m fine. And I’ve got good news for you. Eren Jaeger is moving back into his class. He won’t be coming for lessons anymore.”

You drop the rag you were using to dust and you nearly drop the phone, too. Your heart is beating so hard you're surprised it hasn’t stopped in protest yet. “Really?”

“Yes. Seems he no longer thinks he needs your particular teaching style.” He chuckles as the ground you were standing on disappears out from under you, leaving you to fall, unsupported, through a space as empty as your chest feels. “I heard about his performance in class, though. Mike gave him an A. He thought the kid did incredibly well, mostly thanks to you. Congratulations. You officially have a student who not only didn’t go to jail, but actually did well.”

“Really.”

You just said that, didn’t you?

You slid down to the floor and lean against the leg of the piano, thin and fragile in appearance but strong enough to hold up a piano and you, too, apparently.

Erwin talks for a few minutes, before pausing. “Are you sick?” He asks sharply.

“Why would you think that?” you snap.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re paying much attention. And you’re not cursing.”

“Of course I’m not sick.”

“Right.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

You should correct him.

But you feel empty, exhausted, more drained than you’ve ever been in your life, and speaking takes work. So you sigh and say, “Maybe. I don’t know.”

You note the listlessness in your voice as your mouth forms words you would never speak if you were in your usual frame of mind, as you speak in a tone that you never even knew you could use.

Shit, maybe you _are_ sick.

“You probably are. It’s cold out and you don’t leave the house enough, you’re bound to get sick if you sit inside all day. I’ll let you go. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“All right.”

You hang up without waiting for a response and close your eyes.

Eren left you. He decided he didn’t need you and he left you. And you deserve it. You know you do.

God, you’re an asshole.

Would it have killed you to tell him you liked him? That you needed him? That if you’d met some other way, if you weren’t his teacher, if he hadn’t been entrusted to your care –

Your eyes pop open as the doorbell shrieks.

God, you hope it’s someone you can beat to a pulp, someone you can take out your anger on –

You fling the door open, venomous words on the tip of your tongue –

Eren stands there, bathed in the light flooding out of your house, shoulders hunched, eyes on his shoes, rocking back on his heels. “I, uh, I don’t know if Erwin called you yet, but –” he licks his lips nervously and glances up at you. “I moved back into my class. So we’re not student and teacher anymore.”

You stare at him.

He didn’t leave you.

He’s here.

He’s here and apparently you’re taking too long to answer.

“You didn’t answer me, yesterday, so I just – assumed that it meant you liked me and just – that was stupid of me, I shouldn’t have done that, I guess I’ll go, sorry –”

You grab the front of his jacket and drag him inside, slamming the door shut and slamming him back against the door and slamming your lips against his, standing on your toes to reach him properly. God you’re short, like a fucking kid, but Eren doesn’t care, he doesn’t care at all, he just wraps his arms around you and holds you against him like he never wants to leave.

You’re never leaving him again, and he’d better not walk out on you anymore.

Your hands shake as they unzip his jacket, and he shrugs it off as he kicks off his shoes.

“Your lips are cold,” you mutter. You press your hands against his face and find that it’s cold, too, and you shower it in kisses, warming him with your mouth and breath, kissing his closed eyelids as he laughs.

“I was outside, of course they are,” he says with a smile.

“Shouldn’t have walked over. It’s too cold.”

“How else would I have gotten here?”

“You could’ve called. I’d have driven down and gotten you.”

“Well, last I talked to you, you weren’t down with the idea of us… being a thing, and I didn’t know how much of that was the student-teacher thing and how much of it was you trying to turn me down nicely, and I didn’t want to get turned down over the phone…”

You pull back so you can look him in the eye. “Moron.”

“Listen, I wasn’t sure, and – I –” he shrugs.

“And you what?”

A blush creeps over his face.

You raise your eyebrows. “What?”

“Well, I figured if I was gonna be pushy, and you said no, you’d probably stop being my teacher and you wouldn’t let me come back. And then I’d never see you again. So I wanted to make sure I got to see you. At least once.”

He goes even redder when he sees you staring at him.

“You thought I’d say no?” You ask flatly.

“Well, I didn’t know, so…” his voice trails off. He sighs and looks away from you.

He has a gorgeous profile.

You watch him silently, waiting for him to speak, but he doesn’t.

He thought you didn’t like him.

You bury your face in his neck, but pull back immediately – “It’s fucking _cold_ here, why the hell are we standing by the door?”

“Because you pushed me against it?” Eren says confusedly as you drag him away from it.

“You could’ve said something, you know,” you point out.

“Hey, I was just happy you let me in at all.” He sits on the couch, tugging lightly on your hand, and you kneel with your knees on either side of his and wrap your arms around his neck. If he thinks you’re sitting next to him – if he thinks you’re putting any space at all between the two of you – he’s fucking insane.

And then you register what he _said_.

You frown.

You stared at his ass, didn’t give half a shit if he stared at yours, invited him to stay late every day, let him stay over just because of snow, and then had sex – no, that wasn’t even having sex, that was goddamn _love-making_ , and he was worried you wouldn’t let him inside?

You tap his skull. “Did you hit your head on something? I thought you were smarter than this.”

He sighs. “I never know what you’re going to do,” he says softly, studying your face.

“What are you talking about? I’m nearly always an asshole. That’s a pretty good way of figuring out what I’m gonna do at any given time.”

He rolls his eyes. “You keep saying that, but it’s really not true. You let me stay late every damn day –”

“You keep away the nightmares –”

“You’ve never actually yelled at me for being a shithead –”

“No, just pushed you around –”

“You decided we didn’t have time to play Mozart and then let me play it anyway, just because I wanted to –”

“I wasn’t gonna let it turn to shit just because you had a midterm –”

“You refuse to change the temperature because it might hurt the piano but the second you find out my hands are cold you turn it up without a second thought –”

“It’s nearly impossible to play piano with cold hands –”

“You don’t leave your house but when you find out that’s the only way I can take my midterm you do it without arguing –”

“Oh, there was arguing –”

He slaps a cold hand over your mouth. “And then you pull shit like this, because god forbid anyone find out you’re not as big an ass as you want people to think you are. Do you think I’m gonna run around telling everyone you’re softhearted or something?”

You wrap your hand around his. “Your hands are freezing,” you explain when he looks at you like you’ve gone insane.

He throws his free hand up in the air in frustration and you grab that one, too, holding them between yours in an attempt to warm them.

He stares at you.

“You’re not an asshole. Not to me, at least.” He twists his hands so he can push his fingers between yours, and lets them fall to the side.

“Sounds like you _do_ know what I’m gonna do, then. At least sometimes.”

“But I don’t. You always do exactly what I don’t expect, and you never tell me _anything_.” He takes one of his hands out of yours and cups your face.

You lean into his cool hand.

“I didn’t even know you were a soldier.”

“Four tours in Afghanistan.”

“Four?”

“Four,” you confirm. You close your eyes and concentrate on the feeling of his skin against yours, his hand slowly warming up with the help of your body heat. “It’s what my nightmare is about.”

His thumb runs over your cheekbone, slowly, soothingly.

The door is there.

You open it with a sigh.

“I was head of a special unit. We were given the special tasks – gathering information, taking out threats. Making other units look like shit. I was the best – probably because I’m small. Easy to ignore, easy to miss. And it’s easy for me to hide in small spaces.

“There was a woman, Annie. Piece of shit. We connected her to an incredible number of information leaks, breaches in security – basically, she was responsible for a damn big number of deaths.

“We got sent out to find her, capture or kill her – whichever one put her out of our misery the quickest. Our information said she’d be hiding in town, among civilians. Not a problem. It wasn’t like we couldn’t break into houses and leave before anyone even woke up.

“So of course we’re searching through houses, checking for people, checking that no one’s Annie, working our way through towns, hunting her down. And one night, I break into a house, open the door, and there’s a guy standing there, and he looks shocked, like he just shit himself and didn’t know what to do about it, but he’s got a gun, and he raises it and points it at me, and then this little girl comes down the stairs, probably his daughter, and she looks and me and she looks at her dad and she starts crying.

“And I raised my gun and I pointed it at her. Can’t shoot the guy ‘cause he’ll shoot me too, but threaten his kid, and he’ll back off.”

“And? Or do you not want to say? You don’t have to if it’s too much,” Eren says gently, thumb still pressing against your cheekbone.

“And nothing. That’s all I remember.”

You open your eyes to see his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. “You don’t know what happened next?”

“No idea. I don’t know if the threat was enough, I don’t know if I shot the girl, I have no idea what happened. But every single night – until you turned up, anyway – I shot her. I looked that little girl in the eyes and shot her, over and over and over again, shot the very person I was supposed to be protecting.” You close her eyes and you can see her, staring at you, the bullet flying towards her face.

“You don’t know if you shot her, though,” Eren says quietly.

“But I don’t know that I didn’t.”

He presses his lips to your forehead, to your cheek, to your nose, to your temples, covering your face with kisses, somehow failing to care about the incredibly strong chance that you shot a little girl for being in her own house.

You grab his face and hold it still so you can kiss his lips.

He laughs. “You call me a brat, but you can’t even wait for me to kiss you.”

“It’s not my fault you were taking a long time,” you mutter.

“You just recounted your nightmare to me, I figured a make-out session was not in the near future.”

“It’s not making out, it’s kissing, you cocksponge.”

“There is –”

“If you say there’s no difference, I’m gonna _show_ you the difference.”

He grins. “Fine, there’s no difference.”

You heave in a deep breath. “You shitty little brat.”

You press your lips against his. “That’s kissing.” You run your tongue over the seam of his lips until he opens them for you, allowing your tongue inside. “This is making out,” you murmur before delving inside his mouth, kissing him, nibbling on his tongue and his lips, allowing his tongue inside your mouth, feeling his hands slide down your back to cup your ass.

Brat. Laughing at you for kissing him and then groping you.

You roll your ass against his dick.

He moans against your mouth, and blood rushes to your dick.

You grab his hair and pull his head back so you have access to his neck, mouthing your way across his jaw and down his jugular, listening to his breath hiss past his lips.

“Jesus, does your nightmare get you hard or something?” he gasps.

You press your face into his neck and inhale his scent, something sharp but not unpleasant, something you could smell every day for the rest of your life. “No. It just reminds me that I could be dead, but I’m alive, and I’m gonna take advantage of that and fuck your brains out, brat.”

“Well if that’s all,” he murmurs breathlessly, pulling your face out of the crook of his neck so he can smash his mouth against yours, his other hand pulling you against him.

You put your hand on his throat and push him away. “You still haven’t told me what Kirstein said that pissed you off.”

He grimaces. “Well that’s a turnoff.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

You consider pointing out the fact that you’ve just told him something no other living being knows, and he owes you an explanation _now_.

But you’ve just told him something no other living being knows, and you’re alive to tell it, and you didn’t die in that doorway and he’s still here regardless of what you did just a few years ago and he’s looking at you with warm, clean eyes, and you wrap your arms around him and kiss him and grind your hips down on his erect dick.

“I think we need a second bottle of lube for the couch,” he mutters.

“Fuck no, it’s too hard to clean the couch.”

You feel his legs shift under you, and then his hands drop down your legs, and then he stands.

You wrap your legs around his waist.

He grins at you, the asshole. “Are you scared of being carried?” He asks disbelievingly as he pushes open your bedroom door.

“I didn’t think you were strong enough to carry me,” you say as he dumps you on the bed and heads to your closet.

“Gee, thanks,” Eren says sarcastically.

You shimmy out of your pants, pull off your shirt, and pull the lube out of the drawer of your bedside table while Eren slides the closet door open.

You sit back on your heels, feet spread so you have access to your ass, lube up your fingers, and push one inside yourself.

Eren digs around inside your closet.

You slide your finger out a little, ignoring the discomfort as you push a second finger in – you weren’t exactly tight to begin with, you can handle a second. Your breath hitches as you press your fingers against your walls and you arch your back, closing your eyes for a moment to appreciate the fact that the best person who’s ever fingered you is yourself before opening them to stare at Eren, tall and thin and, apparently, strong.

Eren huffs and pulls his head out of the closet. “Where is the – oh.”

You blink lazily at him as his eyes flick over your body, his tongue running across his lips.

You push in a third finger and sigh and let your head fall back, reveling in the feeling of being filled, blatantly ignoring the more unpleasant stretching feeling as you accommodate your fingers.

You hear Eren come towards you.

There’s a moment of silence. The shithead probably doesn’t know what to do.

And then you hear him shift, and he kisses the head of your cock.

You close your eyes as his tongue swirls around your dick. He mouths at your shaft, moving down to your balls, sucking on them gently, drawing a moan from you before licking a stripe up your dick and fitting his mouth over your head.

He bobs up and down, moving down a little farther every time, drooling on you, his hand wrapping around the base of your dick and squeezing.

You grab his hair and pull him off your dick, raking your eyes over his flushed face, taking in his dilated pupils, the string of drool connecting his mouth to your dick.

“Was that bad?” he pants anxiously.

You pull his face to yours, tasting soda and your own precum, pulling your tongue out of his mouth for a second so you can slide off your legs and move backwards, pulling him with you. “It was incredible,” you murmur, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He looks uncertain.

You sigh and tighten your legs around him, grateful for the height difference that puts his cock just a little below yours, allowing you to rub your cock against his, sending a jolt straight through you. With a little effort, you roll your hips up and curl yourself up, putting your ass just above his cock, your stomach muscles protesting and your ass empty and aching. “If you don’t fuck me now,” you say through clenched teeth, “I will cum just from imagining what you’d have done if I let you blow me a little longer. And if that happens, I’m letting you get yourself off. So maybe you should stop looking like a kicked puppy and stick your dick in my ass. Just a suggestion.”

He doesn’t appear convinced.

Your dick hurts. Is he gonna make you beg for it? You grab the hair at the nape of his neck and ignore your ragged breathing as you say, “Eren, you shitty brat, what do I have to do to get you to fuck me for god’s sake?”

He grins. The stupid fucking asshat _grins_ at you before he presses his lips to yours and guides his dick into your ass.

Your head falls backwards. You can’t help it. It’s a natural reaction to getting fucked by a dick that’s just the right size, filling you up in exactly the right ways, like he was fucking made for you.

His warm lips find your throat and you gasp, tightening your arms around him, shoving your hips up to meet his, forcing him to moan so he can’t laugh at you for making too much noise, torn between pulling him up for a kiss and letting him continue nipping at your collarbone. He solves your dilemma by moving up to kiss you, letting you bite his lips, his taste mingling with the sharp salty iron of blood, his hot breath the air you breathe.

You meet his eyes, his beautiful turquoise eyes, and he holds your gaze as he rams into you. A mischievous smile crosses his face.

He hits your prostate.

Your back arches, your vision goes black – you lose sight of Eren’s eyes – and when you open your eyes again you’re not looking at him, you’re looking at the headboard, and you reach for his hair but it’s too late, he’s slamming into your prostate again. Your leg cramps up, and you realize that you’ve been holding your legs around him so tightly with your feet at such an awful angle for so long your muscles are seizing up but he hits your prostate again and it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all, and your hand finds your cock and two strokes later you’re cumming all over him and all over yourself and you hear nothing but a static buzzing noise and your body disappears in waves of pleasure that somehow bring you higher instead of dropping off, every wave accompanied by a moan, until finally the moans turn into your name and the waves drop off, leaving you sore and well aware of it.

Eren lies on top of you, breathing like he’s run a marathon, face flushed and hot when you cup his cheek in your hand, lips wet and parted and soft under yours.

He cleans you off again.

You wonder if he’s gonna make it a tradition.

You don’t think you’d mind.

Maybe you’ll get some baby wipes or something. Start keeping them by the bed. Tissues might be all right, but they’re not the best.

“What time’s your first class tomorrow?” You ask, propping yourself up on your elbows as he hunts for his clothing, giving you a damn good view of his ass as he does.

He’s got a great butt.

“10:30.”

“Get over here, you’re not going anywhere. I’ll drive you there tomorrow.”

He fiddles with his phone for a minute, sets it on the bedside table, and climbs into your arms.

“I set an alarm for 9.”

“All right.”

He snakes an arm around your waist. You kiss his forehead and find that your head is too heavy to lift back up again.


	10. Chapter 10

Your eyes flicker open to the bright light of a phone. Eren squints at it, one eye closed entirely to protect it from the glare, and grins. His finger slides across the screen a few times before he shuts it off and replaces it.

“Did you wake up to answer a text?” You ask accusingly. You doubt the accusation comes through properly, though, between the way your voice cracks towards the end and the low volume at which you spoke.

“Shit, you’re awake, sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Nah, I got an email. School is canceled today. Apparently it’s snowing.”

It takes a moment for you to figure out that he’d been on his phone to turn off the alarm. “Good.”

You drag the blanket up and let him tuck his face into your chest.

 

You wake up before he does. Judging by the angle of the sun coming through the window, it's 8:00. Or somewhere around that time, anyway.

Your legs have been bent for too long. They’re stiff.

You ignore them. They’ll survive.

You chew on your lip.

You can’t ignore them.

You need to stretch.

You need to unwind yourself from Eren.

You take a moment to consider the logistics of such a move.

He has one leg thrown over yours, and somehow managed to drag the sheet around so it’s tied around your legs.

You’ve never had a problem with your sheets in your life. You didn’t know sheets could be problematic. And yet here you are, having a problem with your sheets, doing your best to unwind them without waking Eren.

A couple minutes later, you give up.

He’s wound around you, the sheet is wound around the two of you, and your fidgeting hasn’t managed to wake him up.

You consider yelling him into consciousness, but the more you look at his peaceful face, the less appealing that idea becomes. So you brush his hair back and find yourself engrossed in it, in its softness, in the way it falls out of place at the slightest touch. It seems to want to be messy: when you twirl it into spikes, it stays there; when you push it to stand on end, it does; but when you brush it down flat, it flops over, falling out of place faster than you can neaten it.

“Having fun?” He murmurs, curving his back like a cat in an attempt to stretch.

“No, waiting for you to wake the fuck up so you can help me get untangled.”

He squirms in closer to you, and you note with displeasure the way he grabs the blanket, pulling it behind you to tie you closer to him. “What, can’t do it yourself?”

“Not with your leg the deadweight it was.”

“Is,” he corrects. “The deadweight it _is_.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

He kisses your neck. “You know,” he says contemplatively, “You keep saying that, but you’ve never actually _done_ anything about it.”

You run your hand down from his hair, over his neck and down his arm, watching goosebumps appear wherever you touch.

You dig your fingers into his ribs and grin as you discover that he’s ticklish.

He bucks away from you with a gasp, giggles turning into laughs as you bring in your other hand, ignoring the way his hands reach for you as he tries to get you back.

Your grin widens when you realize he can’t get away from you, too tied up in the sheets to move.

It doesn’t last long, though, and you’re pretty sure you’re gonna have bruises all over your shins from where he kicked you. But the sheets aren’t tangled around your legs anymore, and you’re free, and you straighten your legs and roll onto your back with a sigh, stretching your arms above your head and flexing your feet, heaving in a deep breath as you pull yourself in opposite directions, exhaling in a puff of air as you relax.

You let your eyes flutter half-closed as you watch Eren, your arms relaxing over your head.

He really is beautiful, even when he’s looking at you in a wide-eyed state of teenage horniness.

“What were you saying before?” You ask languidly.

He reaches for you and you roll out of bed and discover that your earlier stretch wasn’t anywhere near enough – your legs are still stiff from lying down for so long. So you stretch again, standing on your toes as you pull your arms above your head.

Eren actually whines when you let yourself fall limp, swaying your ass from side to side to pop your hips. You pop one hip out and glance over your shoulder. “I need a shower. You coming with me?”

You don’t bother waiting for him.

You hear a thump as he tumbles to the floor, and within seconds, he’s by your side.

You glance up at him.

His eyes are glued to your ass.

You wonder idly what he’d do if you stopped walking. Would he stop and double back to keep staring at your butt? Would he have the decency to blush?

You bend over to turn the shower on.

Eren makes a strangled sort of humming noise.

“Eren, how much were you holding back before?”

“What?”

“My butt hasn’t changed much since you started taking lessons with me, but I really don’t think you’ve ever been this expressive about it.”

He blushes bright red. “I figured you’d kick me out if I so much as looked at your ass, let alone stared at it.”

“And what, you think that’s changed?”

His face goes from red to white so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t faint. “I – I’m –”

You snort. “I never kicked you out before, moron, I’m not starting now. Now get your ass in the shower, you’re just as dirty as I am.”

He steps into the shower, water running down his body, tracing his chest and stomach and legs and erection.

Because of course he’s got an erection.

Fucking teenager.

He flushes again. “Sorry, I –”

You roll your eyes and step in so you can kiss him, which shuts him up pretty quickly.

You press your palm against his crotch.

He whines and ruts against you.

You pull away and grab the sponge and the soap.

Two minutes into your body wash – you never realized that washing your body could be a turn-on, but judging by the way Eren fidgets behind you, it is.

Or he’s just horny.

“Levi –” he whines.

“Hmm?”

“I – might need a little help. With. Um.”

You frown and think back. Was he really this hesitant before?

Well, but the situation is different now, you guess. Less heat-of-the-moment.

“Help? With what?”

“My. Um. You know what, nevermind.”

You turn to face him.

He really does have a nice dick. You don’t think you’ve ever seen it in good lighting. “With your dick?”

“Kinda. Yeah.”

You snort. And then you chuckle. And then you’re laughing, laughing so hard it hurts, holding onto Eren’s shoulder to keep from slipping.

You feel a little guilty. Eren looks hurt. “Looks like you’re in quite a pre-dick-ament,” you choke out.

He rolls his eyes and lets you laugh it out. You pat the head of his dick, ignoring the noise that comes from Eren’s mouth. “Thanks for the opportunity,” you say to it.

You hand Eren the sponge. “Here, wash yourself off.”

He takes it and stares at you.

“I’m not washing you off.”

You didn’t know someone could clean themselves dejectedly. You’re learning lots of new things today.

You massage shampoo into your hair, and within minutes, your hands are replaced by Eren’s. “Are you trying to bribe me?” You ask contentedly as his strong fingers rub circles into your scalp.

“Wherever did you get that idea,” Eren asks primly.

“The dick rubbing against my ass told me.”

“You talk to dicks now?”

“I’m the dick whisperer.”

“You should get yourself a reality TV show.”

You shudder at the thought of that many people tracking dirt into your house, unwittingly rubbing your ass against his dick. “You should probably take care of that.”

His fingers stop moving in your hair. “Take care of what? Getting you a reality TV show?”

“No, your hard-on.”

“What?”

“You should take care of it. Whack off. Jack off. Get off. Whatever you wanna call it.”

You glance at him over your shoulder just in time to see his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline.

“What?”

“If I had to count the number of times you’ve said ‘what’ in the past few minutes, I’d need both my hands and probably both of yours too.”

You turn around so your hair is under the water, washing the shampoo out and giving him a damn good view of your flaccid dick. It’s not your fault you don’t find morning breath and an unwashed boy appealing.

When you open your eyes, though, his gaze isn’t on your dick but on your throat. You do your best to figure out where he’s looking, and when you tap your fingers there, you feel the strange soreness that accompanies a bruise.

His hand drifts to his cock.

“Can I ask you a question?” You ask idly. “What do you think about when you masturbate?”

“I – what?” He asks in a strained voice.

You take a step closer to him. “What do you think about when you jerk off?”

“When I –”

You press your lips to his throat and he moans.

“You, always you, your head thrown back and your throat under my lips and –”

You trace his collarbone with your tongue, pausing to watch his hand speed up.

“And sometimes I think about you underneath me, your legs spread for me, or above me, arching your back as you cum, or – Levi I swear you’re like a sex god or something, holy shit –”

“Or?”

“Or what?”

“You said ‘or’ and then stopped yourself.”

He swallows.

His hand slows.

You trail one of your hands up his ribs. “Or?”

“Levi –”

“Or?”

He closes his eyes and swallows again. “Or on your knees in front of me, with your lips on my dick and oh god –”

You slap his hand off his dick before he cums, and he actually shrieks, a high-pitched yell that reverberates around the bathtub.

“Levi what the _fuck_ I’m sorry I know you won’t do it it’s just a thought I had please let me – Levi?”

You ignore the confusion in his voice as you sink to your knees in front of him.

You might need his help to get up after this, because shit the floor is hard.

You trace a vein from the base of his cock to the tip and glance up at him to meet his wide, incredulous eyes, blue and clean and beautiful, as you plant a kiss on the tip of his cock, water streaming in rivulets down your face and over your lips and down his dick, and you chase them, following them down, pulling his cock back into your throat, focusing on suppressing your gag reflex as you listen to him gasp for breath above you.

His moans make for great background noise.

“Levi – Levi – I – I’m gonna –” His hands grasp at your hair and you pull off – just in time, too, he cut it close – and duck out of the way, jerking him off as he cums.

When he stops shuddering, you grab his forearm and use it to haul yourself up. He pulls you against him and kisses you, his hand grazing over your skin to the back of your neck, holding you in place.

“You need to brush your teeth,” you mutter when you pull away.

“Says the guy who tastes like my dick,” Eren says cheerfully.

You grimace. “You’re welcome.”

He intertwines his fingers with yours. “Thanks. I seriously just expected you to give me a handjob or something, you didn’t have to blow me, I know you’re not a fan of germs and stuff,” he says seriously.

You shrug. “You were in a predicament.”

He sighs for so long you’re surprised he doesn’t faint.

“Quite a pre-dick-table predicament, too,” you add as you grab the shampoo.

“I swear to god I’m gonna punch you.”

“That move would dick-tate the rest of our relationship.”

“I hate you so much,” he whines.

“That’s re-dick-ulous.”

“No. No. No.”

“It seems like –”

He presses a hand over your mouth. “Holy fuck, you’re such an asshole.”

You pull your head away from his hand. “Are you sure I’m not a dick?”

He turns and pulls open the shower curtain. “Fuck this, I’m not showering with you, I didn’t even know you had a sense of humor what the fuck is this –”

You force out words around your laughter as you grab his arm. “You’re nowhere near clean, you’re staying in here until you are.”

“Fine. But if you say the word ‘dick’ one more time, I swear to god, I’m –”

“Gonna blow?” you suggest.

His eye twitches. “Yeah, I’m gonna blow all over your stupid face.”

You snort. “Now, that I might kick you out for.”

“Of course.”

“By the way, you still haven’t told me what Kirstein said that pissed you off.”

He nearly drops the shampoo bottle. “Is this really the time to bring that up?”

“You swore you’d tell me today.”

“During breakfast.”

You stare at him. He keeps putting it off.

He stares back at you.

He must have a reason.

“All right.”

He exhales. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t talk much after that, smiling at you when you dump suds in his hair and patting your ass when you turn away – poor kid, too nervous to actually smack it – but remaining silent, hardly even rolling his eyes when you make another dick pun.

You’re tempted to tell him he doesn’t have to worry about it, doesn’t have to tell you anything. Hell, you’re tempted to drag him back into bed, fuck him until he can’t move, and let him fall asleep in your arms.

But he’s gotta tell you some time. And much as you’d love to tell him not to worry about it and play piano for him until he calms down, it wouldn’t help anything.

So you cradle his face in your hands and kiss him gently, spreading the fingers of your right hand so Eren can cover your hand with his and push his fingers between yours, his other hand finding your waist and squeezing it gently.

“Ready for breakfast?” You murmur.

“Did you get a degree in ruining the moment?” He mutters.

“How’d you know?” You ask dryly.

“Just a hunch.” He sighs and releases you.

You turn to shut off the water. He pushes the curtain open.

He’s not even looking at your ass.

That’s not a good sign.

You were under the impression that he’d be staring at your ass on his deathbed.

He’s silent as he dresses.

Also not good.

He’s not usually silent like this, distracted, barely looking at you.

Maybe you should just save it for another day.

It’s not like _you_ didn’t wait to tell him about your nightmare.

Of course, it’s not like you waited this long, either.

What could it _be_?

You decide, for the moment, to forego actual food. Eren doesn’t look like he could eat anything, anyway.

You do make coffee, though.

Eren dawdles in front of the cabinet, like he’s got no idea where the sugar is. You wrap your arms around his waist and press your forehead between his shoulder blades. You feel his skin shift as he takes a deep breath.

He tugs gently at your hands, and you release him. He follows you to the table.

He sits and wraps his hands around his mug, hunched over it like he’s trying to become the damn thing.

“When I was little, my dad got involved in some weird shit. Drugs, money trafficking – I have no idea when it started or how, but by the time I was ten, it was really bad. My mom tried to ignore it – there was a concert hall a couple blocks away from us, and she’d take me there once a week. And I had a couple good friends, Mikasa and Armin, and she’d send me to stay with them whenever I could. Which I guess was good, because one day I went home to find that my house was on fire. My mom was trapped in her bedroom. She didn’t get out.”

Something splashes into his coffee and he wipes his eyes roughly with the back of his hand. You grab it before he can set it down and squeeze it tightly.

He smiles shakily at you, but it disappears before it even comes close to the easy, cheerful smile you know so well. Not that you blame him. If his house was on fire when he got there, he’d have watched his mom die.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and goes on. “My dad came and grabbed me and dropped me off at Mikasa’s house, and that was the end of that. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. I just – lived with Mikasa after that, went to school with her, stuck with her and Armin, got damn good grades because of it, and got a full scholarship here.”

He flips your hand over and studies your palm like it’s the most interesting thing he's ever seen. “Jean went to high school with Mikasa and me, and he had an enormous crush on Mikasa, so I saw him a lot. He knew about everything. It wasn’t exactly a secret.”

Suddenly, you know where this is going, and you don’t want it to go there, you want it to change, you want to grab him and wipe his tears and put his smile back on his face and then you want to grab Kirstein and smash his face through a wall.

“And one day, in music class, Jean was fucking around like usual, talking shit about how he was gonna be the best, and I laughed ‘cause he’s a dick, and he said I was shit, and I said he was actual honest-to-god shit, and he said I’d never be anywhere as good as he was, and I said he was better than he was and I’d fucking prove it, and he said I was so bad my dad left me and –”

And you know the rest, he doesn’t have to tell you, and you stand and drag your seat over next to his. He falls towards you and you wrap your arms around him.

He doesn’t pull away until your shirt is soaked with tears.

“Oh, god, I’ll go get you a new shirt or something, I’m sorry –”

You roll your eyes and brush his hair out of his face. “Don’t worry about it, Eren.”

He grabs your hand and holds it against his cheek. You brush your thumb across his cheekbone. “Would you like me to beat Kirstein to a pulp for you?”

He laughs, a tiny huff accompanied by a fleeting smile. “No. It’s… he’s an asswad, but even _he_ doesn’t deserve that.”

“Wow. You’re nicer than I give you credit for.”

He smiles again and closes his puffy eyes, resting his face against your hand. You move your other hand up to brush his hair out of his eyes – it looks like it needs a trim – and you find yourself tracing his face, his hairline and his eyebrows and his nose and cheeks and lips and chin. You memorize his face, the straight line of his nose and the sharp point of his chin and his soft cheeks and the smooth curve of his lips, so much different under your finger than under your mouth. Then again, lips are more sensitive than fingers.

You stretch up a little to press your lips to his forehead, and when you pull away, his eyes are open.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You wanted an explanation and I gave you three different sob stories.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I asked, I made you tell me.” You pull his forehead down to yours. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening.”

You sit like that for a moment, foreheads and noses touching, your hand cupping his face and his hand resting against your neck, until his stomach growls.

“Hungry?”

“A little,” Eren admits, and with a sigh he lets his hand fall.

You kiss the tip of his nose before standing, and his face lights up with a grin.

You can’t help it. You smile as you turn away. It’s good to see his familiar grin.

“Levi?”

“Hmm?” Cheerios or eggs? Cereal is probably better.

“Why don’t you ever let me see you smile?”

You frown as you pull bowls out of the cabinet. “Force of habit, most likely.”

“Force of habit? When did you get in the habit of not letting people see you smile?”

You shrug. “I’m not. I’m in the habit of being short as all fuck. It’s generally hard to intimidate people when you’re barely an inch over five feet tall, and smiling just makes it harder.”

When you turn to face him, he’s grinning.

Kid bounces back fast, goddamn.

“I’m not intimidated by you anymore. Can I see you smile now?”

“That is actually probably the worst way anyone’s ever tried to get me to smile.”

His facial expression turns pensive, and you feel guilty for a second until he grins again. “I guess I’ll just have to make you smile, then.”

You snort. “Good luck.”

He eats his cereal quietly. Probably not the best way to make you laugh. Then again, ten minutes ago he was crying over the loss of both parents, so maybe he’s just not up for it yet.

You take his bowl when he’s finished and brush his hair away from his forehead so you can kiss it. He reaches up and squeezes your hand before letting it fall away, and you head for the sink.

By the time you’ve closed the dishwasher, you’ve remembered that, much as Eren seems to like you, you’re not the cheeriest person in the world, and if you try to cheer him up on your own it won’t end well. “Wanna watch a movie?”

He brightens. “Yeah! Which movie?”

You shrug. “I don’t have a big movie collection, so choose something that’s on Netflix.”

Twenty minutes later, you’ve discovered that Eren’s love of _Bambi_ was more than just nostalgia; the kid actually really likes Disney movies. _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ is currently loading on your TV, and you don’t even care.

Eren sits curled against your side, one leg crossed over one of yours, head resting against your shoulder.

You’re about ninety percent sure he can’t actually see the TV like this.

He doesn’t seem to mind, though, so you let him stay there, and within minutes you find yourself running your fingers through his soft hair.

“Levi?”

“Hmm?”

“Sorry about crying on you earlier.”

Your fingers still. Is he _apologizing_ for crying over his dead mom? “What?”

“Sometimes it just hits me, like it just happened yesterday, and I – um – cry a lot, and then I remember that I’ve still got Mikasa and I’m still alive and doing all right and I’ve got music and, uh, now, I guess, I’ve got – you too? Anyway,” he continues hurriedly as his face turns pink, “After that it kinda just clears up and I can keep going. I didn’t mean for it to happen today, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Your fingers resume their hair brushing. “Eren?”

“Yeah?” You try to ignore the way his lips twitch up at the sound of his name.

“Do you just think of me as some one-night stand?”

He sits up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over. “No! I – I mean –” he flushes. “I –”

“Good. Relax.” You brush his hair back. “’Cause I’m in this for the long haul. Even if we’re not exactly getting married tomorrow, I’m not going anywhere if you’re not. You’re allowed to cry in front of me, I’m not going to kick you out for it.”

He looks like he’s on the verge of crying again. God, you hope not. You weren’t lying when you said he could cry on you, but you have no idea how to comfort people.

You didn’t do too badly earlier, though. Maybe that’s just because it’s Eren.

“Does this mean I can call you my boyfriend?” Eren asks hopefully.

You snort. “Yeah. Yeah, you can call me your boyfriend.”

He actually punches his fist in the air, and you turn away to hide your grin. Instantly, there’s a cool finger under your chin, pulling your face back towards Eren.

“There’s my smile,” he says with a grin.

You pull him to you for a kiss. “Yeah. That smile is yours, too.”

“Too? What else is mine?” He asks, frowning.

You roll your eyes. Are your cheeks heating up? Oh god, you might be blushing. “Me.”

He kisses you so hard he knocks you over.


	11. Drabble #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is from Eren's POV, just so you guys know. The rest are all from Levi's, though.

Levi rolls out of your arms, and you blink your eyes open.

“Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, kissing your temple. “Go back to sleep.”

You wave a hand in the air, trying to signify that it’s fine, that you should probably get up anyway, that he shouldn’t worry about it, that you’re getting up. A hand-wave probably doesn’t cover that, but he seems to get it anyway.

“I’ll make coffee.”

God, you love him so much.

Ten years and a wedding later, and you still get a little giddy over the idea that you can say you love him. You can say it whenever you want and no one can stop you and he doesn’t mind.

By the time you’ve stumbled out of the room – twenty-nine years old and you still can’t get out of bed without falling over something – Levi’s sitting at the piano. He tends to play in the morning; he says it’s the only time when you’re too tired to practice.

You manage to pour yourself a cup of coffee without breaking anything, and find your way back to the living room. You lean against the doorway and watch him.

His black hair is no longer so black; tiny spots of gray fleck his hair now. They probably wouldn’t be so obvious if his hair wasn’t black and if you hadn’t spent so much time looking at it. His back, facing you, is still strong, but you notice that he comes back from the gym frowning – he says he’s losing muscle mass, says that he can’t do as much as he used to. The difference probably wouldn’t be so obvious if he wasn’t so in tune with his body. His fingers skim over the piano just as fast as they ever did, but he says he’s having more trouble memorizing songs than he used to. It probably wouldn’t be so obvious if he hadn’t spent so much time on the piano.

But he still hunches protectively over the piano when he plays, like he’s worried that if he doesn’t, someone will take it from him. His fingers still glide over the keys like figure skaters on ice. He still looks at the keys from force of habit alone, glancing up to look at you without missing a beat.

His smile comes more easily now, although only around you. The difference is probably only obvious to you.

He says you’re a better pianist than he is. You doubt that. You just perform more than he does; your job in an orchestra requires it. Levi, though – Levi plays piano like he was born to do it, like he’s never done anything but play piano. You’ve never seen him as happy as when he’s playing piano. He says that’s not true – he says he’s just as happy with you as he is with his piano – and that might be true, but you can’t replace the piano. No matter how much he says you keep him calm, you can’t replace it. And you’d never dare to try.

You watch his head tilt as his fingers skim down the keyboard, exposing his neck. His hair falls over his eyes, and if he’d been anyone else, maybe it would have forced him to stop playing. But this is Levi, and he doesn’t need to see the keys – he hasn’t needed to see them for years, since before you even met him.

You drain your mug and turn away from him to drop it into the dishwasher.

He doesn’t look up when you return.

You fall into the chair next to the piano and watch his face, calm and relaxed. You’ve seen that expression on him countless times since you met him, but you can’t get enough of it. It’s still beautiful.

“What’re you looking at?” He asks softly, just barely loud enough to be heard over the music.

“You.”

The corners of his mouth twitch.

“What? You’re gorgeous.”

“Forty-year-olds aren’t generally considered _gorgeous_.”

“You’re not just any forty-year-old, though. You’re mine. And you’re gorgeous.”

He’s been getting more and more worried about his age, like he thinks you’re going to leave him. It’s hysterical, considering the amount of time you spent in the early years of your relationship thinking that _he_ was going to leave _you_ because of your age.

He doesn’t respond and turns back to the piano.

The first time you walked through his door, you’d been terrified. You’d just gotten kicked out of one class and sent to the disciplinary teacher, who turned out to be hot as all fuck for a guy eleven years your senior. He’d opened the door and your first thought was that you should’ve put more effort into your clothes that morning. And then, of course, you’d tripped trying to take off your shoes.

The fact that he’d put in any effort, at all, after that, had been astounding.

The fact that he hadn’t beaten you to a pulp and kicked you out after he’d caught you staring at his ass had forced you to consider the possibility that you were existing in a dream state.

You hadn’t even considered the possibility that your relationship could go beyond friendship until the first time he’d asked you to stay over.

He was your miracle, the most interesting and terrifying and wonderful and kind person you’d ever met. Still is. And he thinks you’re going to leave him because he’s old.

Well, he’s not old, and you won’t leave him even when he is.

You stand and bend over, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead against his hair, careful not to impede his movement. He relaxes back into you and lets his hands drop at the end of the song. You straddle the bench, and he leans against your chest. You hum to him, something you vaguely remember Mikasa singing last time you saw her, and he smiles.

You would kill to see that smile even once, and he lets you see it every day. “I’m not going anywhere, Levi. I’m in this for the long haul. I love you too much to let you go. Couldn’t do it if I tried.”

He threads an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to the base of your throat.


	12. Drabble #2

Three sharp raps on your door shock you out of your reverie.

When you swing the door open, you urge Erwin inside – if you leave the door open long, the humidity and heat will get in and kill your piano.

“Erwin. Why’re you here?”

“What, can’t I visit a friend?”

“Not really, no.”

He sighs, but he knows it just as well as you do. You’re not the kind of friends who pop in to say hello on a disgustingly hot Saturday morning in June. “I’m actually a little confused.”

“About what?”

He follows you into the kitchen.

“Iced tea?” You ask.

“Please.” He gratefully accepts a glass of tea as he places a manila folder on the table. Even in this heat, he’s wearing long pants, and you’re surprised he hasn’t fainted yet. “Head of housing brought me a parking and housing application she found strange.”

You raise your eyebrows. “And you brought this to me, why?”

“Well, as you know, anyone who plans on living off-campus needs to submit a full application with their address, so we know they’re not just trying to find a way to keep a car on campus.”

He pauses and you nod.

“Eren Jaeger – you remember him?”

Your eyebrow quirks up. Eren Jaeger, the one who got a job in a music camp and is supposed to call you in an hour or two to tell you how his first day went? The kid you miss a hell of a lot, even though you just saw him a week ago? That one? “Yeah, I remember him. Why?”

“Well, he submitted a parking application and an application for off-campus housing, and we found it a little strange.”

He pulls a paper out of the folder and slides it towards you.

You glance at it.

Eren’s handwriting is really very messy. How the hell does he write sheet music when his handwriting is barely legible? “What about it?”

“If you’ll notice, the address is yours,” Erwin says, one finger dropping down on the relevant section of the application.

“Yes, and?”

Erwin looks at you, apparently evaluating your sanity. “That would imply that he would be living with you for the duration of next year.”

“Yes, and?”

Erwin takes the paper back and slides it into his folder. “Levi, are you telling me that you plan on having Eren Jaeger live with you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“Might I ask why?”

“You may.”

He rolls his eyes. Incredible. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him do that. “Why?”

“Because he’s my boyfriend, and neither of us saw any reason for him to live on-campus and pay for a room when he would be spending so much time here anyway.”

Se – six and a half seconds pass before Erwin breathes again. “I don’t think I heard that properly.”

“I think you did.”

“No, no, I don’t think I did. Are you telling me that after living on your own for years, leaving your house to do little other than grocery shopping, you’re not only dating but planning on _living_ with a twenty-year-old college student?”

“You know, Erwin, for someone who’s been called a genius more times than I could count, it’s taken you a very long time to come to this conclusion.”

“This isn’t exactly something I foresaw,” He retorts. “When did this – oh,” he says with a sigh. “Am I correct in assuming that this started when Eren came to me and asked to be moved back into his class? Am I equally correct in assuming that he asked to be moved back in the first place because you refused to enter into a relationship with him if he was your student?”

“Correct as always, Erwin.”

He sighs. “You never fail to surprise me.”

“I’ve never tried to surprise you, either.”

“Sometimes I’m not sure about that.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t thinking about you when –”

“I don’t want to know,” he assures you. “Should I tell Hanji that she can approve the application?”

“Yeah.”

He finishes his tea and stands. “I’ll be off, then.”

You note with interest that you’re still relieved to hear those words. It seems Eren hasn’t managed to make you any more sociable. “Don’t overheat, out there.”

He nods. “If, at any point in the year, you need him out – Hanji will help you move him on campus, no questions asked.”

You snort. “ _Hanji_ won’t ask questions? Are you insane?”

He smiles. “No answers necessary.”

You nod.

In spite of the shortness of the visit, you’re still happy to close the door behind him, craving the peace he’d destroyed by knocking on your door.

Which makes it even stranger that you don’t mind when the phone rings, ripping the silence to shreds. Somehow, Eren always manages to announce himself with an unnecessary amount of noise, and you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Hello?”

“Levi?” And his voice, even over the phone, is more calming than Xanax. “No – Mikasa, go away, it’s –”

You grin as he argues with his sister. You just wish he was here to see it.


	13. Drabble #3

“I’ve made reservations downat a steakhouse,” you say.

“Where are we _going_?” Eren asks impatiently.

“Somewhere special.”

“What’s a two-hour drive away that’s special?”

“A special thing that’s two hours away.”

“Leviiiiiiiiii!” He whines.

“It’s our twenty-fifth anniversary, don’t you trust me to pick well?” You ask teasingly.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to know,” he grumps. He’s forty-eight years old and still whines like a kid.

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

He throws you a dirty look. “I’m too old for surprises.”

“Didn’t you throw me a surprise birthday party this year?”

“I wasn’t on the receiving end of that, though.”

“No, but _I_ was, and I’m fifty-nine years old. If _you’re_ too old for surprises, what does that make me?”

“Fifty-nine years young?” He says hopefully.

You roll your eyes. “Brat.”

You realize, twenty minutes into the car ride, that you shouldn’t have picked this. Your knees are stiff and your back is stiff and your ankles are stiff and dear _god_ you’re old and your body knows it. You may as well have hired a private jet and flown down, for god’s sake.

But you didn’t, and two hours later, when you climb out of the car, you hate yourself more than you realized you possibly could. Eren, too, looks sore, but he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to it. “The beach?” He says breathlessly. “Isn’t it too cold?”

“It’s April, not December.”

He grins at you and holds out his hand. You take it.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”


	14. Drabble #4

He still hasn’t come to bed.

You glance at the clock. It’s one in the morning. He needs his sleep. He’s got a final tomorrow, and if he fails, he doesn’t graduate.

You roll out of bed and pad into the kitchen.

Eren’s not studying.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, a half-drunk cup of coffee in front of him – a glance at the coffee pot shows that it’s empty.

His cheek is resting on his textbook. You’re pretty sure he’s drooling.

You hope drool doesn’t decrease the value of the book.

“Eren?” You whisper.

He doesn’t even move.

You brush his hair away from his eyes. “Eren?”

He doesn’t even close his mouth.

You bite your lip.

You pull his torso backwards, wrap an arm around his shoulders, and bend so that you can slide an arm under his legs.

You take a deep breath and lift him.

His head falls against your chest.

He’s not the heaviest thing you’ve ever picked up, and curled up in your arms like this, he looks tiny.

For a senior in college, he’s small.

He opens his eyes when you go from the brightly-lit kitchen to the dark living room. “Wait – wh – I – I need to study –”

“You said that two hours ago, and then fell asleep. It’s time for you to go to bed.”

He blinks blearily at you. “I’m not a kid, I don’t need a bedtime.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I – are you carrying me?” His eyes fly open as you dump him on the bed.

“Not anymore.” You head back out to turn off the kitchen lights.

“You didn’t have to do that!” he says when you return, his face so brightly flushed you can see it in the dark.

“Yeah, I did. You wouldn’t wake up. Now strip and go to sleep.”

“I –”

You sigh and pull his shirt over his head.

“I can undress myself, you know,” he says grumpily as you undo his pants button.

“No, you can’t. Go to sleep.” You toss his pants over the side of the bed and pull him down next to you. “Shh.” You pull him into your arms and press his face into your neck so he can’t talk.

He mumbles for five minutes straight before falling asleep.

He’d better ace the damn test.


	15. Drabble #5

“What’ll you do when I die?” You ask.

“You’re not dying,” he says forcefully. “Just sick.”

“I’m ninety-six, Eren. Sick _is_ dying.”

“You can get better, you always have –”

You run your hand through his sparse gray hair. “There’s a reason why the doctor looks at me the way he does.”

He closes his eyes and leans into your hand. He really shouldn’t do that. He has a bad back.

His skin feels papery against your hand. You’re sure your skin feels the same. Aging tends to do that to skin – take away any elasticity it had, drain the moisture from it. Your frequent gym visits had done nothing to stop it, in the end.

“I’ll sit around and play piano,” Eren murmurs, and who cares if it’s hoarse and cracked with age? “I’ll play Mozart’s Sonata No. 4 and I’ll play it loud, exactly how you hate it, so maybe you can hear it.” His hand creeps up and covers yours. You can feel the cold metal of his wedding ring against your fingers. “And I’ll over-steep the tea so you can smell it.”

“Don’t you dare sit around and mourn me,” you say, and you can’t even smile anymore. What’s he going to do? Mikasa’s too old to visit often, Armin is the same. Kirstein hasn’t been able to play violin in years – arthritis forced him to stop. You’d been right, though. He and Eren had sounded great together. “Don’t you sit around and waste away mourning me.”

“I won’t be mourning you,” he says with a smile, the same bright smile that lights up his beautiful eyes. It always has. You’re convinced he was born smiling. “I’ll be honoring you. And I play piano too loud anyway, now, I can’t hear it if it’s soft. And I over-steep the tea anyway – can’t taste it otherwise. So I won’t be wasting away and you can’t be angry about it.”

You wipe the tear away before it can fall down his cheek. “I won’t be angry at you. I never could be angry at you.”

He laughs. It catches in his throat and comes out raspy. “I know. I know.”

“I love you, Eren. I’ve always loved you, and I always will.”

“I love you too, Levi.” He huffs, a tiny puff of breath that’s supposed to be a laugh. “We were in it for the long haul and we made it.”

You turn your hand and thread your fingers through his. He always had long fingers. You don’t know when, precisely, they turned bony. Must’ve been a slow process.

You open your mouth, but you don’t know what to say, so you bring his hand to your lips and kiss it.

He pulls in a deep breath and rests his forehead on your clasped hands.

You keep your eyes on him, even when it gets hard to keep them open.

He’s beautiful.

You keep your eyes on him. 


	16. Drabble #6

“Are you sure? Are you sure I look all right?” Eren asks nervously, smoothing down his shirt. “Is anything out of place?”

“You look perfect, Eren,” You reassure him for about the thousandth time that evening, running your fingers down the seams of his jacket again, because whenever you do that he takes a deep breath, and you’re pretty fucking sure he’s going to hyperventilate if he doesn’t breathe at least a little.

He grabs your hands and holds them there. You can feel his ribs expanding and contracting under your hands.

You slide your hands out of his and around his back, pulling him into a hug. His heart pounds against your ear.

“You’ll do fine. You’re one of the best pianists I know – thank god I wasn’t your teacher for more than half a semester, you’d have outstripped me already. And they hired you in the first place. And you’ve been practicing for a couple weeks now. You’ll do fine.”

He nuzzles your hair. “But what if I don’t?” He asks, his voice muffled by your skull.

“What do you mean, what if you don’t? What’re they gonna do, fire you after putting so much work into you? They’ll keep you and I’ll still love you and you’ll get another chance.”

He snorts. “Here’s hoping I don’t get fired.”

“If they fire you I’ll shit on everything they love.”

He squeezes you. “That’s why I love you,” he says teasingly.

He tips your chin up so he can see your smile.

You stretch up and kiss him. “I love you too.” You release him. “Now get your adorable ass over there. I’ll come down in an hour.”

“You’re sure you’re ok taking the bus?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m thirty-three, I’ll manage. Somehow.”

“Okay, just checking…”

“You’ve been checking for the past week. Hush. Go. I’ll be fine.”

You almost kick him out the door, but you don’t want to get dirt on his pants.

Your stomach turns over as you watch him pull away.

You’re too old for this many nerves.

It’s his first performance with a professional orchestra. What if he doesn’t do well?

It’s your first marriage proposal. What if he doesn’t say yes? You’re old and a hermit and all you do all damn day is sit around on your ass and play piano, why the fuck would he _marry_ you and chain himself to you for life?

You mutter to yourself as you dig a nice pair of pants out of your closet, ignoring the way Eren’s clothes are spreading onto your side of the closet again. You’ve never regretted a decision – well, that’s a lie, but you’ll shit on anyone who says you’ve ever regretted a decision before you even made it.

Maybe you shouldn’t do it so publically. You don’t want to force him into saying yes.

But what are you gonna do? Drive home with him and then propose in the living room?

What if he does well? You don’t want to overshadow his accomplishments, and if he says no, it’ll ruin the whole night. What if he does poorly? That would actually be the worst time to propose.

You take the tiny box out of its hiding place behind a book in your nightstand. When you open it, the ring catches the light, refracting it and breaking it into a thousand tiny blue sunbeams.

You’d considered getting a diamond, but this one had caught your gaze – it was precisely the same shade as Eren’s eyes. According to the jeweler, it was a sapphire, and nowhere near as traditional as a diamond, but an hour of searching hadn’t revealed anything you’d rather slip onto Eren’s finger.

Unless, of course, he says no, in which case the whole thing was pointless.

You end up at the bus stop twenty minutes early. If you’d stayed in the house any longer you’d have driven yourself insane. At least here, you can worry about the dirt instead of worrying about seeing your boyfriend’s face fall into an expression of horror and pity as he says no.

You flatly refuse to sit. Those benches are dirty and disgusting and probably haven’t ever been cleaned.

You don’t have much choice on the bus, though, and you gingerly lower yourself into a seat like you’re seventy years old and have hip problems.

You briefly wonder why you and Eren decided to only take one car instead of just taking both.

Oh yeah. Save on gas, drive home together instead of in two separate cars like morons, and if he says yes you don’t want to leave him to drive home alone. Right, right. All sensible reasons. Except that someone’s probably pissed or vomited on this seat at some point and it’s getting on you and –

You feel for the little box in your pocket and take a deep breath. Dirt is the least of your problems right now.

There’s a stop just a block away from the concert hall, and you pull in deep breaths of the humid air as you walk towards it.

What about this brat makes you so nervous? Why the hell do you even give a shit about his opinion? It’s been four years and you still can’t figure it out.

The concert hall is crowded, but the noise is muted; music lovers waiting for a concert to begin aren’t generally the loudest people.

The doors open and you flood inside in an orderly way, if that’s possible, and you find your seat in the fifth row.

The woman next to you is wearing perfume. You don’t like it.

You sit perfectly still, one hand resting on the lump of the box in your pocket and the other holding the program. The show will be an hour long, no intermission – it’s a weeknight, after all.

Thank god Eren’s first performance isn’t too long.

The lights dim and the curtains rise.

You take a deep breath.

Eren sits at the piano in the corner. He looks perfect, his blazer hugging his torso in the best way as he sits up straight at his piano, hands poised above the piano, waiting.

They play through classical pieces and modern pieces and a couple movie theme songs – the Star Wars theme song never sounded so good.

You relax as time passes; Eren doesn’t falter once, and you can hear the piano notes flowing from the piano in waves that find their height with the violin, and it’s beautiful. You’ve been listening to him practice furiously for weeks, practicing like his life rests upon this performance, and it’s paid off. He flies right through the parts that he practiced for an hour at a clip, glancing up at you gratefully when you’d tap out the time on the side of the piano. He’s been playing chords in his sleep since he got the damn audition, fingers twitching along your side until you intertwined your fingers with his.

He does very well, not even looking towards the audience until the final song.

His gaze skims the audience as the conductor announces their final song until it finds you.

You see a tiny smile flicker over his face as the conductor announces their final song, meant to showcase their new pianist: Mozart’s Sonata No. 4.

That wasn’t in the program.

 You grin at him. You can’t help it. The idiot has a romantic streak a mile wide.

You’ve never heard it played like this before, with the orchestral background, and you’re pretty sure that’s because it’s meant solely for the piano. But the orchestra doesn’t interrupt, fading into the background the way the piano so often does, and if it was meant to show Eren off it’s doing a damn good job of it.

He’s beautiful, up there. He always is. He’s beautiful when he’s naked and above you and between your legs, he’s beautiful when he’s sleeping curled around you, beautiful sitting at your piano in his boxers at seven in the morning because he couldn’t sleep because he finally figured out the timing for that damn song, beautiful in one of your sweatshirts and a pair of his sweatpants with his third mug of coffee and two textbooks in front of him at one in the morning when he studies. And he’s beautiful on stage in a spotlight, playing the song he plays for you when you’re in a bad mood.

You slip your hand inside your pocket to touch the box, making sure it’s still there, even though you haven’t taken your hand off it since you took it out of your nightstand.

Eren finishes without a single mistake, and he stands and bows without bothering to suppress the wide grin on his face. You stand, clapping, and the audience stands with you. You’ve never been so proud in your life. He’s incredible, beautiful, and everyone can see it, everyone knows how wonderful he is, and he’s yours –

Well. Not yet.

You’re getting ahead of yourself.

You pull in a deep breath and turn to walk out as the applause fades.

“Their new pianist is wonderful –”

“I’ve never heard that sonata played so well –”

“He fits in quite well with the rest of the orchestra –”

He’s perfect. Of course he fits in well with everyone else. They have no idea how long he’s been playing Mozart, how much effort he put into it, how much time he puts into his songs and how much he practices and how much he loves it.

Sometimes you remember how annoyed you were when he first rang your doorbell and you actually get a little angry with yourself.

It takes you ten damn minutes to get out of the auditorium. Ten of them. Ten minutes full of bullshit involving people who couldn’t move their asses at a proper speed.

You wish you could fly over their heads, maneuver your way out of the auditorium and find your way to Eren.

When you burst out into the auditorium, warm summer air hits you in gusts from the open doors. People stream out into the hot night, heading for their cars and home or dinner, and you find your way backstage, flashing a family pass at the man who stands there to keep unwelcome guests out. He nods and lets you in, and you enter a dark, loud world, full of musicians cleaning their instruments and putting them away, chatting and congratulating each other, circled around a tall boy with brown hair and a wide grin whose eyes are exactly the color of the ring in your pocket.

You hang back, not wanting to disrupt him – really, you probably shouldn’t even be back here, but if you’d had to wait out there until he came to find you, you’d have gone insane.

He spots you and his eyes brighten. A couple people – one of whom you recognize as the violinist – glance over their shoulders, hunting for the source of his distraction, and when they spot you, lingering by the door like a weird gloomy shadow that could probably fade into non-existence next to Eren, they smile and pat Eren on the back and disperse.

He walks to you, but really, walking doesn’t begin to describe the bounce in his step or the clear restraint that keeps him from running to you. You wrap your arms around him and pull him into a hug, and he chatters away happily – “I got through the whole thing without mistakes, that was incredible, I can’t believe it, everyone says I was great, I hope the audience liked it –”

“They loved it, they couldn’t shut up about you, thought you were great,” you reassure him.

His grin falters. “Did you like it? Did you mind that I played Mozart? Was it go –”

You pull his face to yours for a kiss. “You were perfect. I loved every second of it.”

His whole body relaxes.

“Did you think I _wouldn’t_ like it?” You ask incredulously.

He shrugs. “I don’t know, I just – I –”

“You were worried I wouldn’t love it?”

“I – I don’t know, I –” His shoulders droop.

God, you’re a dick. Ruining his night.

“Sometimes I don’t know how far you’d go, y’know?”

“What?”

“Well, I know you won’t lie, so if you say I was good, I know I was good,” he says quickly, his flush reaching his ears.

You brush his hair back. “You’re always good.”

If he blushes any more his face is going to burn.

Someone smacks Eren’s shoulder. “Jesus, just get married already,” he says with a laugh and a wink.

Eren’s mouth drops open. “Oh, he wouldn’t – he – he wouldn’t want –”

“Me? I wouldn’t want to get married?” You say quietly.

“Well, you wouldn’t, right? I mean, not that I’m angry or anything, just –”

You take a deep breath.

You really, really hope the floor is clean.

You get down on one knee.

“Did you drop something? What are you doing? I can get it, the floor is probably dirty –”

You pull the box out of your pocket.

“What is…” his voice trails off. “Levi…”

“Oh my god,” someone whispers.

You ignore them. You fix your eyes on Eren’s. One of his hands flutters weakly towards you.

You open the box, and somehow, even in shitty backstage lighting, it manages to glitter. “Eren? Will you marry me?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows.

Oh god, he’s going to say no.

He begins frantically nodding, his hands flying to his eyes, glittering like the stone in his ring.

You stand and pull his left hand away from his eyes and slide the ring on his index finger.

The musicians behind Eren break into applause.

You smile a little as you reach up to wipe his tears away. It _does_ match his eyes perfectly. Thank god. You didn’t get to check.

He glances back and forth between you and his ring. “I – I – I –”

You kiss him. “Shh. Are you ready to go home?”

He presses his forehead to yours. “’Course.”

“I love you, Eren. You know that, right?”

You can feel his grin against his lips when he kisses you. “I know. I love you too, Levi.”


End file.
